


Drowning

by mattiemogan



Category: Wolverine (2009), Wolverine (Movies), X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drug Addiction, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Natural Disasters, Recreational Drug Use, Terminal Illnesses, Tragedy, Tragedy Porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-06-15
Updated: 2010-06-15
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 143,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattiemogan/pseuds/mattiemogan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life story of Remy LeBeau as it unfolds over the course of 26 years. Having narrowly escaped a natural disaster, Remy risks everything to save the life of one of his friends. To do so, he must confront the ghosts of his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was much too far out all my life  
> And not waving but drowning.  
> -Stevie Smith
> 
>  
> 
> _The following events take place between 1979 and 2006._

You have to play the hand you're dealt. Nothing else will do. So when the National Guard gets there (they're carrying body bags), he doesn't fight them. Not over the body. He's already stopped vomiting, again. His hands are in the mud. His hands in dirty water. Hell. And, when two days pass (he guesses this is how much time he has spent in the basement of that church), when he gets asked where he wants to go—Atlanta or Dallas—he doesn't fight then either, even though he hates government types, men with clipboards, soldiers—and for good reason. He just shakes his head. "North," he says.

Where are his friends? Why hadn't they come? This shouldn't have happened.

"How about Washington, D.C.?"

No, he's wrong. His friends had been there. Maybe. They'd looked for him, maybe. In any case, they've left it for FEMA and the National Guard to sort out.

He shakes his head. Farther north. A child is crying behind him. Another in the distance.

The man looks down at his clipboard and map. He lowers his voice. "You got friends somewhere?"

He shakes his head again. He doesn't want to tie things up, but it's important that no one knows who his friends are. His friends—he's always kept them hidden. He always evades. Now he leans against the railing behind him. He can smell the sewage all around him—a smell that's human and awful and searing, if a smell can be searing, if it can burn your eyes.

"New Haven, Connecticut? How's that for north?"

"Fine."

"New Haven it is, then," the agent says.

He thinks the agent might be about to call him "son." He is no one's son, though, and he is a decade older than this man. But he looks young. Even now he looks all of thirty-six, thirty-nine tops. And he has a face that elicits sympathy—that much he can bet on. If he ever decides to bet on anything again.

The man asks his name and takes out a blackberry. "You're in luck. We got someone to take you. You'll leave tonight and get there tomorrow."

You have to understand: he can't stay. Even if he could, he couldn't. Everything is bad and everything is over.

The agent says: "Son? Your debit card."

He turns back around, eyes still cast downward (safety's sake), and takes what the agent has to give him. Two grand.

"Spend it wisely."

He clenches his fingers around the card and pushes through the crowds until he's on his own. The card bursts in his palm with a short pop. The kids are still crying.

###

In New Haven he finally breaks down and calls them. September there is vacant. September is days old and already dirty. He's sleeping in a ready-made shelter, fold-out beds twenty to a room. He doesn't need to be there, really. He could make enough cash in a game to put himself up at a Best Western for a week or two. No, this is what he deserves. This is penance.

He only has to make that phone call once, bumming a cell phone from a college student on the street. "It's me," he says when someone picks up the phone. Then, on the other end, shuffling. Then, a shout.

Seconds later: "Oh my God," Storm breaths into his ear without saying hello. "I'm so glad you're alright. Where are you? Logan or I—one of us will come for you. Where are you?"

He speaks. The student waits for his phone. The sidewalk is beneath him—the water at his back.

He stops talking and closes the phone. The streets are busy—people going to work or school. People's lips moving. He hands the phone back to the college student and hears himself speak. For the rest of his life, however long this might be, he knows all of his moments will feel like this one—the echo of his voice as though he were locked in a chamber, the dizzying movement of people on their feet. He knows he will tell only one story, and here it is: this.


	2. Chapter 2

This all began twenty-six years ago.

First of all, from the beginning: You had to know it wasn't his idea to go to Three Mile Island. And getting back? That wasn't something he'd thought through either, but then again, he wasn't much of a planner. He hadn't remembered that there'd be a much-needed place to refuel an empty tank. He was famous for doing these things—making half-baked plans, doing only half the wash or forgetting to stir the shrimp at the bottom of the pot. Forgetting to follow through with things. It was true; he was a sloppy thief who got by on native intelligence, swagger, and good old fashioned luck. In New Orleans he had his fingers in half a dozen pies—a money laundering scheme with Russian connections, a credit card scam with offshore ties. Et cetera. Just deep enough to get a kickback, not deep enough to lose a hand. All in all, he was really lucky that no one ever took his hand off, or worse. He half-credited the ancestors.

But even the ancestors couldn't help him this time. That plane was out of fuel and it was going down in fuckin' Kentucky or Ohio or something—in the middle of the goddman night. No lake or body of water in sight—not that he could see anything anyway. He could power the plane to some extent and keep it in the air, but he couldn't compensate for the lack of fuel. That was that.

Okay, the plane was sputtering darting and he was looking for a pond to land in, but what he was really thinking about was that guy. Logan. Mostly, how he'd done a shitty thing by leaving him there. The look in that dude's eyes: lost. Not even _betrayed_ or _hurt_ or _angry_. Just lost. Dude was fucked. Dude was fucked and he had just split. Once again, he hadn't followed through. He said he'd take him up there and bring him back. But then Logan was all stunned and had said he'd find his own way—well, that's when you take a person by the arms and throttle him and make him come with you anyway, strapping him into the airplane and telling him, _It's now or never_. Or, _No is not an option_.

He hadn't flown back right away. Know this: he had landed outside of Pittsburgh on a river and thought good and hard about going back. About finding Logan, about figuring out where those kids had been taken to. (Who _was_ that guy?) Maybe that was the least he could do after everything. (Maybe he owed it to folks.) As he sat there and wondered about it, the weather turned bad. No, now he couldn't go back. He had to wait this out. So he smoked the last of what he had on him. (A real waste to smoke it, but he hadn't thought to bring a syringe.) After that, he was in no shape to fly for a while. He let the afternoon tick by, drifting in and out of consciousness, sitting in the plane and listening to faint news radio reports about a possible nuclear meltdown. When he good enough to start again, it was dark out. The middle of the night. And he'd been too fucked up—from everything—to remember the fuel.

He hated traveling alone at night. It was the loneliness that really got to him.

Yes, that was the thing. He got lonely easily. As the plane began to skim the tops of the trees he thought that it might be nice to be crashing in the middle of the night with another person around. Even with a self-destructive, amnesiac guy with steel claws that came out of his knuckles.

Then, a cornfield. He pushed down on the controls and tried to glide downward. There wouldn't be any fire—there was no fuel. There would be a soft crash, and if he could keep the plane steady he'd simply skid to a stop.

Briefly, he entertained the other notion that had come to mind. He realized that, without even thinking about it or planning for it, he'd assumed that Logan would come back to stay in New Orleans for a while. And do what, he wondered. He'd have introduced him to all his friends. He had a lot of friends, and a few good ones. They chalked his weirdness up to voodoo. Oh Lord, they said, he was _touched_. Until Stryker had thrown him into that cage on Three Mile Island, he hadn't realized that there were a lot of others out there who were also touched.

He'd told only one person about it, about everything. All his secrets. Goddamn.

It would be nice to have another friend around, he thought. Just one more friend. One who knew the history. Who knew what it was like. This dude Logan had dealt with Stryker, and had dealt with him enough to want to kill him. This dude knew things—or at least he had before he'd gone to the island.

The plane was going down. He'd be okay. He always was. He couldn't say the same for the plane. It hit the ground and instead of skidding to a stop, it rolled over. He braced himself against the controls, against the windshield. With one swift motion he blew out the windshield and propelled himself into the night, away from the rolling wreckage.

When he came to—minutes or hours later—it was still dark. He was lying next to a row of rotted cornstalks and his vision fought to adjust to such complete darkness. No one had come for him, no one had heard him crash. He must have been out in the middle of nowhere. He pulled himself to his feet. Even though it was dark, he could see that the plane wasn't recognizable as a plane anymore—it was just a heap of propellers and metal. He knew no one was around, but his instincts told him to get out of the field. Spending the night in a field never did anyone any good. He was dizzy and in pain—he needed a fix.

He pushed through the corn to a nearby forest. Beneath a pine tree he took stock of his belongings. In his coat pocket he had a nearly-empty pack of cigarettes, a deck of cards, and fifty-eight bucks. In his pants pocket he had a rubber band. No lighter. Bummer. That must have fallen out. Christ almighty, he never should have gone back to Three Mile Island.

###

In those days he was crazy, insane in all the ways he went about getting stuff: stealing, cheating, charming his way into people's lives, talking his way right into their living rooms while his boys crept in the back and stole them blind. He had too many vices and never enough money to keep himself afloat. Earlier that week a couple of cats had come to the club looking for him to settle up. One had brought a tire iron and the other had been packing. But when all was said and done, they both ended up upside down in a tree. Wasn't his idea—just the way things worked out. Most people knew not to touch him.

He'd returned to New Orleans a few years ago to find it a much different city than he remembered from his childhood. When he was a kid, the guilds had run everything. His daddy too. But now the cartels had set up shop, and the guilds, slow to catch on to the role drugs would play in the post-Vietnam years, were out. Lucky for him, he'd learned all about the trade while he was out on his own in New York or Los Angeles or Atlanta—wherever he could toss out a net to make new contacts. He'd caught on quickly. _If you ain't strong you better be smart_ —that was an Irish saying he'd picked up in Boston. It had served him well when he got back to the Gulf. He worked for nobody. But lately he'd gotten sloppy; his smarts had turned to good luck, and his good luck into plain old hubris.

He could number his vices like the bars on Bourbon. First of all, sex. Like everyone else, he had a thing for pretty women, and in New Orleans there seemed to be no shortage. Fortunately he kept the cozying-up to a minimum. Pillow chat was the undoing of too many soft-hearted dudes. He liked women but he couldn't trust them. And even if he could, he couldn't.

Second: Substances. No explanations necessary. No apologies either.

Third: Booze. Ditto.

Fourth: Pride. He didn't like to lose, but you had to lose some time. Everyone did. Once they knew you for a bluffer, they never thought of you as anything else. So he had to keep his pride in check, folding every so often, taking the hit.

Fifth, and this was the worst: an attachment. He'd gotten too fond of someone—this _person_. This guy he was squatting with in the Quarter, Daniel Junípero Serra St. Amant. Just a college student of all things, right. They had an apartment together, but it didn't belong to either of them. A cousin of a cousin owned an apartment and gave Danny Boy the keys. When he was with his business associates, he didn't mention the boy, didn't even think about him. Dan who? Oh, Danny Boy.

In the day time the kid went off to class and at home Remy waited. Waited for the nights when he didn't have business, because those were the nights they could go to the club together—he played cards, Dan played music. Neither of them ever paid or worked for anything. That was the way of the shabby genteel class. Work was a four-letter word—something Yankee transplants and hillbillies had to do.

Dan had been raised under the tutelage of the old St. Amant family—landowners, real Creole shit; his father was the richest real estate developer on the Gulf coast. His mother was some beautiful Dominican _refugiada_ who hadn't had two nickels before René St. Amant had knocked her up. He couldn't inherit his daddy's money (that went to his older, whiter, more legitimate half brothers) so he went to college instead. Even that was just a smokescreen for what he really wanted to do: drink and get laid.

That's right: in those days they were swingers. Write it down, you can quote it. Most nights at the club—it didn't matter what night, Friday or Sunday or Tuesday—you name it. At last call they'd check out together, along with two or three or four girls. Back at the apartment, they'd bust out coke and whiskey for the girls, taking turns, working it out. Everyone could stay the night if they wanted to. Dan would make breakfast the next morning. Only Yankees had the bad manners to kick their women out before sunrise.

Other days were normal, real ho-hum. They lived like a couple of anybodies, just two roommates in a big sweaty city. Just plain folks. Dan would sometimes skip class and go up to the roof to read. He'd sit next to this fucking potted sunflower, lie in the sun, and read some fucking book. Languages. That was his major. The sun made his skin dark, bringing out the Dominican blackness.

Remy'd watch Dan. He'd come up to the roof under the pretenses of bumming a cigarette. But this is the thing: without even realizing it, he'd be lingering over Dan. Wishing he could say something. Wishing he could say, _What happened to me won't never happen to you. I won't allow it_. Wishing he could make the boy realize that a body was everything, that he should never take for granted that his parents had worked hard to protect him. Even though he was a bastard child, he was loved, you could tell. No one had ever put out a cigar on the inside of that pretty arm. His mother had guarded the soft spot of his skull until the bones fused.

Dan heard him but didn't turn his head. "Remy," he said. "Come here."

Remy sighed and ached a little, breathing in the hot air. He came forward.

"Sit down," Dan said, moving aside to share his mat, and Remy sat next to him, cross-legged. He was wearing nothing but a pair of too-long pants while Dan was in a pair of red swimming trunks. "You want to know," he said, "what happens to flatterers and seducers in hell?"

Remy looked at the book Dan had open in his lap. He could see the words but knew they weren't in English. "No." His own formal education had been woefully inadequate—something he tried in vain to keep from Dan.

Dan smiled. He translated. " _. . . I peered down, and I saw long lines/ of people in a river of excrement/ that seemed to overflow of the world's latrines_."

"What about thieves?"

"Devoured by reptiles." Dan smiled.

"I think," Remy said, "I prefer the reptiles." He smiled, but then: the sliver of a memory. He knew a kid on the island with a second set of eyelids. But that kid wasn't the real reptile. Remy didn't fear hell because he'd been someplace worse.

He covered his lips with his hand because he was afraid his mouth might start shaking. Funny how things got to him these days. The smallest thing could take him back there—a fragment of a song, the rattle of a garbage truck. Time didn't heal him—it just ate away at the skin of his memory. He was more fucked up than he let on.

Other stuff he kept to himself: his interest in drugs had always been recreational—something to lubricate the situation, ease a girl out of her clothes, whatever—but now he was doing a bit more. Not just coke, either. Jesus, if he wasn't careful, he'd lose track of things. How much he owed people, for instance. And whom.

If Dan noticed that the smile had dropped from his face, he didn't acknowledge it. "I'm graduating next year," he said. "I'm gonna buy me a boat. You wanna come with me to Jamaica?"

"As long as it ain't hurricane season."

Dan chuckled, turned to look at him. His nose was straight—the nose of someone who'd never been in a bar fight. He kept his hair short, but if it were longer Remy knew it would be curly.

Then, the next thought: Dan must have known the power he had over Remy. One seducer knew another. Usually Remy was the one who had power over everybody else. A wink and a nod were all it took. _Ma'am, 'scuse me, can I get a ride in the backseat of your caddy?_ He knew Dan's tricks because he had used them on other people, but this knowledge made him no less susceptible to Dan's charm. This feeling—of the tables being turned—was disembodying. It broke him open.

"Desperado" played on the radio and Dan reached over to turn it up. He leaned back toward Remy, his nose almost touching Remy's ear. "The ladies are coming by tonight for a little soiree. Could you do me a favor and take the redhead?"

"Adel? _That_ redhead?"

"She's tiring. And I have an exam tomorrow. But I can't tell a lady _non_ , now can I?"

He remembered his poker face. He gave Dan a slow smile. "Of course not."

"Your generosity will be rewarded." Dan turned back to his book.

###

It was cold. He figured out that he was somewhere near the Ohio River. Two hours of walking in the cloudy night and he'd finally found a road. Then, another hour-long walk down an unmarked one-lane road. Then, dawn. Finally he found a road with two lanes and some kind of number. He pulled his leather jacket around him and tucked his hands in his pockets.

He could do nothing but walk. What else? He didn't feel quite pretty enough right then to hitch, if there'd been anyone to hitch from. How to explain himself? He'd been in some kind of apocalyptic fight on Three Mile Island. Then a plane crash. Then a night spent half-running through the woods. Not to mention the fact that he was coming down, and quick. Hadn't fixed in a long-ass time. Christ, he probably looked like a serial killer.

As with all things country, however, the bucolic landscape had an end. Finally, a gas station. An outpost. A sign that said he was thirty miles from Cincinnati. The gas station was real old, one of these things passing away now, an old fashioned phone booth in the parking lot. He stepped inside and checked for a dial tone. Yes ma'am, it worked. He dialed the operator. "Good mornin'. I'd like to make a collect call."

"Who should I say is calling?"

"Me."

The phone rang several times. He stopped counting. The operator came back. "I'm sorry," she said. "It seems that no one is answering."

Dan was home. It was too early for him to be up and moving around. He was probably in the middle of fucking somebody about now. The cat just didn't want to roll out from under some woman and take his call.

"Could you try again?" he asked.

But on the third ring he put the receiver back on its hook. He should be so foolish. Hadn't he learned years ago that you couldn't rely on folks?

The gas station was closed. He went around the back and, after gathering himself for a minute, placed his hand on the door and summoned the energy to bust the lock. Inside, the gas station was dark except for the neon light of the lottery sign. Behind the counter he found what he needed: a couple of razors, some shaving cream, soap, deodorant, aftershave, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. In the bathroom out back, he switched on the light and took a good look at his face in the warped mirror. He looked scruffy, but he didn't yet have that sweaty, hollowed out look. Good. He took his clothes off and turned on the water. Hot. He went to work cleaning himself up. (No one could ever say he wasn't clean.) He shaved away most of his unwanted facial hair except for the small scruff around the mouth. He combed his hair. When he was finished, he threw his used razor away and tucked the other one in his pocket. And the lighter. At last, a smoke. The cigarette took the edge off.

###

Before they'd left for the island, he'd brought Logan back to his place from the nightclub. He needed to change after that fight. He needed to calm down. Jesus Christ on a crapstick, did he need something.

He hated the fact that he had to bring this guy by. Made everything in his body recoil. He knew Dan wasn't home. Small favors. It was really important to keep Dan clear of this shit.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and switched on the lights. The apartment was as he'd left it. No, Creed had not come by. Creed did not have his address. That was the ancestors, protecting him again.

He turned to Logan. Usually this is the point where he'd be all hospitable. He'd bring someone in, show them around, put them in a chair, get them a glass of whiskey. Or ice tea. But this dude—well, he'd seen what this dude could do. And he knew that this guy wanted to go up to Three Mile Island to kill Stryker and Creed and everyone else—but what can you really say about something like that?

And Logan didn't seem like the type to go for hospitality anyway. So he turned to him and said: "You can wait here. I'm going to change and get the keys so we can get my plane. It's on the river."

In his bedroom he pulled off his vest and then unbuttoned his shirt. He threw them onto the bed. No time to be tidy. He paused as he pulled a tee-shirt over his head. Then he poked his head out of his room. Logan was still there. He was wandering around in the living room. "Don't touch anything," Remy said.

Logan seemed to be—yeah, this is something to footnote— _sniffing_ the air. "Who else lives here?"

"No one. I live alone." He went back into his room and grabbed his black leather jacket. When he emerged again, Logan was in the same spot.

"Alone, you say?"

"I have a lot of houseguests." He couldn't help but crack a smile. "If you know what I mean." He went over to the desk and pulled the drawer out. "You and me come back alive from this thing? You can come stay. We'll have a party. Bring all your friends." He sat at the desk as he brought the mirror out of the drawer. He had a little coke in his back pocket and he had to do it quickly.

"You play?" Logan said. He gestured toward Dan's piano against the wall.

Remy shook his head. "It's for decoration." He looked over his shoulder. "I won it. Flush. Diamonds."

Now Logan was staring at the bookshelf. "What about these books? Also for decoration?"

He chuckled and dumped the coke on the mirror. Got out his razor blade to cut a line.

Logan's head snapped back around. "Hey bub, what the hell do you think you're doing?" He started to cross the living room.

Remy threw up his hands. Defensive mode. "Whoa, whoa, cowpoke." He chuckled. "There's plenty for both of us."

"I'm not getting in a plane with someone who's . . ." Logan paused.

Remy didn't need another invitation to snort. When he was finished, he looked up. "That's not your call to make. And in case, if you hadn't noticed, it's the middle of the night. I'm tired. It's been a long day. I have to get your ass up to the island, and a cup of coffee just isn't going to do me."

###

Dan had ambitions of becoming a professional musician, but remaining a professional student seemed more tenable. He was applying for grants. One night, before he went out, he sat at his typewriter in the living room and worked through some applications. "Remy, get a load of this question: 'What do you plan to do to serve your country?'" He laughed. And then typed something.

"What? What did you say?"

"What do you think? 'Nothing.' Tell them to put that in their pipe and smoke it." He looked over at the clock and then back at Remy. "You ain't going to the club like that. Why aren't you dressed?"

He had on a green shirt and jeans. "Not going tonight. I got other business."

"Other business?" Dan stood up from the typewriter. "Wait, don't tell me." He closed his eyes and waved his hand slowly in front of his face. He opened his eyes. "The racetrack. Your friend at the racetrack."

He smiled past Dan. Poker face back on again. "You should know not to mock the magic. You just a Creole sonofabitch."

Dan stepped closer to him. "Oh, is that what you call me to my face these days?" He took Remy's hand in his. "What about when I'm not around?"

Remy startled. Dan had touched him before, but this touch was more certain. Calculated. He felt his energy gathering. If he wasn't careful, he'd put Dan into the next room.

Dan turned his hand over. "I may not be like you, but my mama taught me to read a palm." With his other hand, he combed back Remy's fingers.

"What do you mean, 'like you'?" Remy said. His tone betrayed his nervousness; his voice came out quiet and gruff.

Then he watched as Dan's gaze traveled from his hand to his forearm, to the soft underside of his elbow bruised and punctured. He let go of Remy's arm with both hands. "Remy—"

Remy turned away and ran his hand through his hair. "You should get ready to go," he said, fixing his eyes on anything else—the living room sofa, the old lamp, the window to the street. "You don't wanna be late. Everyone waits for you."

Quiet. Then Dan moved to the sofa and picked up his jacket. "You look tired. I won't bring anyone around tonight."

"Do what you want," Remy said, looking up. "I'm fine."

"I made some iced tea. It's in the fridge."

Remy pretended to look out the window while Dan let himself out of the apartment and locked the door behind him with a resolute click. When he was sure Dan was gone, he went to the fridge and got a glass of iced tea. When he was finished drinking, he took off his belt and tightened it around his upper arm. Then, in the kitchen, he fixed. Really, he knew he shouldn't do this—it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. But this was always a rough time of year, the almost-winter time. It reminded him of things up north. And of the winter his dad had kicked him out. So cruel to kick a boy to the curb in the winter time. Dear old dad, the extortionist. Not his real father, anyway. But if he hadn't been kicked out—if he hadn't been told to leave New Orleans and never come back—he wouldn't have been in New York that morning. He wouldn't have sat down at a bar in lower Manhattan, coming off a hangover, and found himself facing Victor Creed.

The numbness took him. Small favors.

When he came back to himself he saw it was still early enough. He got up from the table, tucked his shirt in, and put on his jacket. He did have business, but not the kind Dan knew about.

He left the apartment and walked away from downtown, past the crowds, toward the mission. The wind blew. He pulled his jacket closer. He was still high, but not so high that he blanked out. The drug didn't affect him the way it did other people.

The last of the fruit was rotting on the ground and he could smell it, sweet and pungent. He knew the wind—it was the ancestors moving through him. They were with him all the time, there when he threw cards, won a game, and burned for Dan. His ancestors had been both slaves and slaveholders, bringing their mix of divination from the Mediterranean and the west coast of Africa. He wasn't pure Cajun—no one was. When he was a kid his people called him _le diable blanc_ , buthe knew he was part black. Native too. These things he could do, whatever they were, were no magic. They were the ancestors stretching their arms across generations.

He'd known Collette Blais since he was a child, even called her his sister. She had bright, golden skin and an easy, bright smile that drew too many bad men. Remy had taken care of one abusive husband for her, sent him packing to Albuquerque. So when he was lost and it was late he went to see her. Her house was always open to him.

The house was a small split-level on a two-lane road, no fanfare. Just a light in the window that let people know she was open for business. He went around the back and knocked. Her boy was in the kitchen. He let Remy in.

In the living room, a few other people were waiting. A young couple sat on the couch and a middle-aged white woman read a magazine as she sat in a chair against the wall. He took a seat in a folding chair and waited only a minute before the door to the den opened and Collette emerged. He looked up as she strode into the room, big and beautiful and familiar as ever, smelling like soap and tangerine.

She spoke to him in Cajun: "Come on back. These clients can wait, but not you."

He went forward to embrace her. "You look wonderful."

She led him by the hand. "Come along. I don't think we have as much time as you think we do."

The room was plain: wood-paneled walls, green shag carpet, Venetian blinds pulled shut across the windows. A card table was set up with two chairs. She didn't sit next to you on a settee to read your cards. She liked to sit across from you and look you in the eyes. He pulled out a chair and sat down while she used a lighter to light a small candle. "Wait, Remy," she said, still in Cajun. They always spoke Cajun together. "Stand up again. Let me look at you."

Obediently, he stood. He felt tall and lanky next to her, next to the small square table.

She smiled and drew in her breath. The skin around her eyes crinkled. "Oh, look at you. I've never seen you like this before. So lovesick."

He averted his eyes and took a seat. Removed a cigarette from his shirt pocket and placed it between his lips. He picked up the candle and held it to his cigarette, inhaled, and set the candle back down on the table. He took the cigarette from his lips and exhaled. "It's not why I'm here, though."

"I know, and that's a pity." She sat down across from him.

He tapped his cigarette against the side of the ashtray and leaned back in his chair.

"If you want, though, I can do something for that. Ease the torment."

"I don't mind the torment," he said. "It's nice to be tormented over something like this for a change."

She smiled again, even brighter. "I like to hear you say such a thing." She took her stack of ordinary playing cards from the nightstand and untucked them from cloth. "So, what kind of spread do you want? Lucky thirteen?"

He shook his head and inhaled from his cigarette again. "I need something drastic." He paused and gestured to the second stack on the nightstand. "Tarot. The Major Arcana. Past, present, future."

The smile fell from her face. She reached around again and took the other stack in her hands. "The cards aren't meant for such liberal use. But, with you . . ."

"With me, strange things happen."

"You call all things to yourself—the good and the bad." She shuffled the deck. "The cards aren't meant to tell the future but about yourself. To force them into this . . . you might not want to know."

He reached his hand across the table and placed it on her arm. "I need to."

She paused, then shuffled again. "Tell me when."

He shifted. Leaned his elbow on the table. "They're ready now."

She straightened and held the cards in her left hand. Then she took the top three cards from the deck and placed them face down.

Past. She turned it over. _Le diable._ A smile again. "Not a surprise."

He smiled too. His childhood nickname. Indeed, a thing of the past. Then he stared more closely at the card, the devil perched, the wings outstretched, the two people chained. No. Not him.

Collette seemed to sense the shift in his mood. She took a closer look at the card. "Whoever that is, he's in the past. It wasn't your fault. The devil means it was never your fault—just something that happened to you. But it's a hard thing to accept, I know."

Remy nodded, pensive.

"This man will reap what he has sown. Maybe not for a long time. But it should be of some comfort to you, to know that." She turned over the second card. "Oh, look at that."

_L'amoureux._

"It's already happening," she said, and this time her smile wouldn't fade. "It's happening right now. If you want love, you can give it and take it freely. That's a good card."

He brought his cigarette to his lips again. "I'm not sure how good it is for a man in my situation."

"Fair enough. But love isn't a mystery. It just is. It's like bringing your hand down on something—" she paused to set her palm on the table—"like this. Like I want this. It's there. Not something you have to fight for, not this time." Her fingers lingered over the card. "I wish this is why you had come to me. But it's not."

She turned the third card over. _Le fen du ciel._ The tower.

He blinked. The tower was a bad card—the worst, actually—but he was unsurprised. He had expected it. Whatever it was—Stryker's people coming back for him, a pissed off creditor—he could take it.

His eyes met Collette's, and he was shocked by the dismay he saw there. Her face seemed thin and strained; she was in this strange, dark place between sadness and fear. Her voice, when it came again, seemed to echo from someplace cavernous and distant, somewhere he couldn't see. "I'm sorry, Remy."

"What? I know it's bad, but—"

Head down, she tapped her fingers on the table and shook her head slowly, chin pointed toward her neck. "It's not bad, it's—" She pushed the card away from her. "It's one of these things . . . . We can't picture it because it hasn't happened yet. But when it happens, we will wonder how we had lacked the forethought and imagination to know." And then: "It's facing away from you. It may not happen to you. It may happen to someone you know. Or not for a long time. Yes, I think that's it. This is a long time from now. It's a kind of devastation, though, that none of us—"

She stopped and gathered the three cards and shuffled them back into the deck with the others. "You go ahead and love, though."

He needed more. "Someone I know? What kind of long time? Years? Collette, what is it?"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't say. This is why the cards don't work for telling the future. They see everything, time without its arc. I can only say that the card was facing away from you. This means something, even to the cards. But it's not something you can prevent."

"I'm afraid," he admitted, stretching his arms out on the table. "Not for me. I need to know that the one I love will be okay. That . . . this person won't suffer because of me."

"Remy." She grabbed his hand.

"It's actually why I came."

"I can't know a thing like that. I won't. I can only tell you that the people close to us aren't bystanders. They're our accomplices. So if you draw someone in, then what happens, happens." She nodded slightly. "You go ahead and love." She shuffled the cards again. "I'll tell you what. We'll draw one more card."

He hunched forward and ran his fingers through his hair. "I came for one other reason," he said.

"I know."

He rolled up his left sleeve and showed her the inside of his arm. "It's bad, I think. I've never been like this before."

She took in the sight of his needle punctures and winced. Her eyes met his. "Nothing good can come of that. You need to clear that from your life. It will throw you off your game. It could kill you. Your cards will stop speaking to you. People will take advantage of you. That's not the cards talking—that's me. That's common sense."

"I know."

"You have so much light. You call things to yourself. I will worry for you now." She shuffled once again and then held the deck out to him. "You pick."

He took a breath and chose the card on top. Always the card on top. It was what you were dealt.

_Le fendu_. The hanged man. The world upside down.

"A trial ahead," Collette told him. "I believe someone is coming to see you."

He felt something big drop out of him. Stryker. Or Victor Creed. "I knew," he whispered.

She quickly shook her head. "I don't think it's a reason to be alarmed. This is no demon. But be on your guard. There are several possible outcomes here. You will have to make a choice about someone. A sacrifice." She paused and took out a cigarette of her own. "In this you have a choice."

When they were finished, Remy tried to slip Collette some money but she refused to take it. "You know I can't. Not from you."

"Consider it a gift. Buy your boy the shoes he really wants. Or go see a movie."

She pushed his money back into his hand and closed his fingers over the bill. "You keep your kindness. And pass it on."

###

The town was called Felicity. There was a hotel next to a glade of trees, and he took advantage of the cover to scope everything out. There were just a couple of cars in the parking lot. He didn't know what time it was, but it was still early. He approached the building and took note of the "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging from the doorknob. Someone was either entertaining a woman or en route to someplace better. Either way. The curtains were pulled shut, but if he leaned against the window he could see inside. The sheets were pulled back, but no one was in the bed. He listened. No voices. This person was either in the bathroom or sitting somewhere, just out of his sight. He went to the door and knocked lightly. "Housekeeping," he said. Nothing. He placed his hand on the doorknob and busted the lock. The door slipped open without much of a nudge.

He could hear the shower going. He glanced around him—no one in sight—and slipped into the hotel room. The bathroom door was open slightly, but the water was coursing. He checked the dresser. A wallet. He quickly opened it to find a few fifties. Oh, he hated to steal from people who hadn't stolen from him, or at least tried to. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. No, he didn't have that hollowed-out look, but he was still a guy who broke into another dude's hotel room to rob him blind, and while he was taking a shower no less. Déclassé. But no time for moral scruples, no siree. He tucked the wallet into his jacket and headed back for the door.

Outside of the hotel and down the road, he retched into some weeds. It was starting. He needed to find a place in this backwater where cards were dealt, among other things. Or he needed to find someone to take him there.

###

He and Logan had talked a little on the way up, but it was pretty evident that Logan liked to keep things to himself. Remy felt chatty. The coke he'd done before they left helped lighten his mood.

"How am I gonna know if you kill Stryker?" he asked. "Will you bring back his head or something?"

"Maybe."

He laughed. "I'm Indian. Part. You know what Indians used to do to their white captives?"

"Scalp them," Logan said.

"Exactly. They used to collect those things and display them. Among others. And it looks like you've got those capabilities right there at your fingertips." He nodded to Logan's knuckles. "So bring us back some scalps, Little Big Man."

Logan looked out the window. He put a hand on his stomach and shuddered a little. Then he sighed. "Is this just turbulence?"

"Turbulence? I don't feel nothin'." He paused, his hands at the controls. "Where you from?"

Logan waited a good five seconds. "Alberta, Canada."

"Holy shit, that's far. I bet it's cold."

"Have you ever been?"

"Hell no. I keep it American. All in the family." He laughed again. "Bet I could clean out Canada, though, if I wanted to. They wouldn't understand my lingo in Montreal, huh, would they?" He lowered his voice. "Do you have a woman back in Alberta?"

Logan turned his head away again. Ten minutes passed, utter silence. Apparently that was a conversation killer. Dude seemed pretty fucking grim about it. Finally Logan turned around again. "So what about you? When did you first know you were . . ." He turned his hand over.

Remy gestured exaggeratedly. "What? A mutant?" He smiled.

"Please," Logan said. "The plane."

"Where I'm from, we call it 'touched.' Sounds so much more polite, don't it? Southern folks like to talk around things. We don't like to confront." He hunched forward. "Oh, I knew all my life, but for sure when I blew my wife's brother away. An accident."

"You're married?"

"Not legally. Not anymore." He sneaked a glance at Logan, who was staring at him. Curious now. "Arranged. Child marriage is one of those things that supposedly doesn't exist in Louisiana. Ask anybody. But anyway, that's the way it goes. My lot in life. The hand I was dealt."

Logan stared through the clouds. "I know what you mean." This wasn't to be confused with "I know what you're going through"—or was it?

And that was the last time they spoke before they reached the island.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Forget everything you think you know about how this story will go. Forget everything you think you know about Remy LeBeau, a.k.a. Gambit, mutant heartbreaker and card thrower extraordinaire.

Flash forward about twenty-six years, give or take a few months. Rogue is sitting in her dorm room up in Plattsburgh, New York. She's supposed to be studying for an anthropology exam, but her head is hurting and she can't concentrate. And she doesn't do much studying these days anyway. She sits there a lot and thinks. She curls up on her bed. She stares out the window. She weighs what she's lost and gained by taking the cure.

Gains: Real physical human contact, obviously. Boyfriends. Parties. Handholding. Kissing. Lying on top of somebody. Lying underneath somebody. Tangling your legs in someone else's. Not having to wear gloves anymore. Not having to wear anything hooded, unless you really want to. Not worrying that a friend or professor will have serious fits if they put a hand on your bare arm.

Less tangible gains: Not having to be an X-Man anymore.

Losses: Not having to be an X-Man anymore.

Also, the cure seems to have some side effects. She has allergies now and headaches too. All these normal, irritating problems that ordinary people have to put up with. One weekend her allergies were bothering her so much that she could barely see or breathe. Not knowing what to do, she called Logan. He dropped everything and drove up to Plattsburgh on Mr. Summers' old motorcycle. He took her to the doctor, got her some medication. Once she was feeling well enough to travel, he took her back down to Westchester County on the bike. She crashed in her old room for a few days and recovered. But this is what she remembers: Logan came into her room to check on her a few times. One time—when he came to the side of her bed and bent over to take a look at her—he brushed the hair back from her forehead and laid the back of his hand on her brow. She guesses he was checking to see if she had a fever.

That moment was something she wouldn't have traded for anything. Not for the world. When she thinks of that moment, she doesn't have any regrets.

She doesn't go back to the mansion that often. She mostly stays at school. She has gone back for a couple of spring breaks and some Christmases. A few weekends. Just to visit. She knows she doesn't belong there anymore—it just isn't her place. It's not right for her to be there using up resources when other kids need things more than she does. When other kids have decided to accept what they are.

Storm says there's always a place for her, though. Storm took it really hard—still takes it really hard—but she's okay about it. She's good. "You're still one of us," she told Rogue after she'd gotten used to the idea. "You were born a mutant. You're still one of the family."

Rogue won't accept any money from the trust for college. That's why she goes to SUNY Plattsburgh. It's cheap. She's got loans, grants, scholarships, and work study. Kitty and Bobby are at Yale and Wesleyan, respectively. Of course they're both in Connecticut. Together.

And just then, as she thinks about this, her cell phone blows up. She reaches over and takes it from the nightstand. Kitty. She answers.

"You wouldn't believe what I have to tell you. Grip yourself. This is quite a story."

Rogue sits up. Kitty calls with news every month or so. She visits the mansion quite often and always has news of drama.

"Try me," Rogue says.

And Kitty launches into this story about some old friend of Storm's and Logan's who has come to stay at the mansion. He's been displaced. By the hurricane, of all things.

"He showed up in New Haven, actually," she says. "I'm the one who picked him up."

Rogue rolls her eyes. Of course Kitty was there. Kitty's always there for the important events. This is already too predictable.

"I waited with him at the train station until Ororo could get there," Kitty says. (Kitty is the only one who gets away with calling Storm Ororo. They're pals.) "This guy is a mess. He's a real hot mess."

"In what way?"

"Just wait."

Kitty describes how this guy is the black sheep of the X-Men. Gambler. Hustler. Never had a real job. Has never filed a tax return. Used to be a member of the team some ten or fifteen years ago until there was some big falling out. He and Logan go back even further, but don't ask Logan but about it because he doesn't seem to remember or to want to remember.

"This guy used to bang Ororo, occasionally," Kitty says. "Back in the day."

Now Rogue is interested, in spite of herself. She feels herself giving into Kitty and hates this. She hates giving Kitty what she wants.

"He was—and is—really good looking. And he knows it, too. He'll charm you and you won't even realize what he's doing. He's older, though. But he doesn't look it. You know us mutants—we don't age as quickly as the rest of the population."

Kitty stops talking. She seems to remember whom she's talking to.

"What's his name?" Rogue asks.

"Remy LeBeau. Also goes by Gambit."

"What kind of name is Remy LeBeau?"

"I don't know," Kitty says and Rogue can hear her growing impatient on the other end of the phone. Like most northerners, she doesn't like to be sidetracked in the middle of a conversation. (Even though Kitty's Midwestern, she might as well be from New York as far as Rogue is concerned.) "I thought maybe you could give me some insights into his name. This guy's a real Cajun. You're from that general area, aren't you?"

Rogue flops onto her back. No, she's not. And anyway, she hasn't been back to "that area" for quite some time.

Kitty continues. She says that they brought the guy to the mansion and gave him a room. He's all depressed or whatever—understandable, he's just been through a natural disaster—so Storm lets him sleep and do what he needs to do. But weeks go by and it becomes clear that he has no intention of getting a job, contributing to the upkeep of the mansion, or pulling his own weight. And Storm, who's so type-A it's not even funny, starts to get pissed.

All he does, Kitty says, is sleep, drink, shuffle cards, teach people how to play poker, and make gumbo. They're all really sick of the gumbo. And Artie's getting a little too good at Texas Hold 'em, if you know what I mean.

So Logan takes him out for a pep talk. They go to a bar and have a little chat. Remy tells him he'll turn over a new leaf.

Except that he doesn't. That weekend he takes Jones and Artie out to a strip club and gets them trashed. When he brings them back, it's beyond alcohol poisoning. It's child abuse. They're sick. For days. And Storm is livid. She is on the goddamn warpath, and you know what that's like.

She tells Remy he's done. He's no longer going to live there. He can go back to New Orleans for all she cares, but she's got a school to run and she has to think of the children. She doesn't care if he ends up in Atlanta or Dallas or Hoboken, New Jersey—she doesn't care if he goes back to the Gulf and tries his luck there—all she knows is that he's outta here.

Logan agrees, reluctantly.

So Remy packs up his shit and puts it outside. Logan brings the car around because he's taking Remy to the train station. He gets out of the car to help Remy put his things in the trunk and he says something. Remy looks up, tosses his jacket down on the ground, and starts shouting. (Kitty is watching all of this from the study hall room where she's monitoring a PSAT practice test on the day when she doesn't have a class or a lab at Yale.)

Holy shit, it's getting heated. Remy and Logan are facing off, noses inches apart, shouting. It's going to come to blows. Logan shoves Remy in the chest and that's it, the guy takes out a deck of cards. He throws one at Logan's feet and it fucking explodes. Logan falls backward and gets up again (naturally). He goes over and slugs Remy in the mouth.

By now everyone is watching. The kids aren't doing their practice test anymore; they're goddamn glued to the windows.

Kitty can't really hear what they're shouting about, but it sounds like Logan says something like, "At least I didn't waste my _whole_ fucking life." And Remy says, "How the hell do you know?" and picks up a stick that's lying on the ground.

Kitty can only guess what'll happen next.

It's this: Storm bursts out of the building from the double doors underneath the windows where the children are watching. She kicks the doors open with a lot of force and brings the wind with her, so she ends up knocking both Remy and Logan backwards. Logan ends up on the ground and Remy is splayed out on the hood of the car. Then she says something: in French.

Logan and Remy stand up. They all start arguing in French. Kitty doesn't know enough French to follow it (she got a five on the AP Spanish test, by the way, so don't blame her) but she can tell it's some kind of dialect. She cracks open the window a little bit more, but she can't catch any of it.

It's getting heated again, but not violent. Then Logan goes over to Remy and puts his hand on his shoulder. He's speaking more softly, and in French. Kitty has no idea what he's talking about.

They're not arguing anymore. They're . . . crying. My God. All three of them. Logan grabs Remy and embraces him. Remy's sobbing. Storm comes over and she's crying too. She completes the group hug. They stay like that for a while, clutching each other and crying. Storm pats Remy on the back.

It's gut wrenching to watch. The kids peel themselves away from the windows, embarrassed. They turn back to their PSAT practice tests. Kitty wants to turn away but she can't. The scene is so awful—a real expression of human misery and frailness. (Kitty uses these exact words.) She watches as Logan picks up Remy's jacket and suitcases and things and carries them back into the mansion. Storm puts an arm around Remy's waist and leads him back inside. He's still crying. He looks up at the window, once, and he doesn't seem to care when he sees Kitty watching.

"So that's what you've got to be prepared for, when you come home for Thanksgiving," Kitty says.

Home. Rogue is entertained and a little put off by the fact that Kitty assumes she'll be coming "home" for Thanksgiving.

"That's the drama in Westchester County."

"That sounds bad," Rogue says. It's all she wants to say right now—to Kitty anyway. Usually Kitty calls her with gossip that's more titillating, more schadenfreude-esque. But she really doesn't want to know that Storm and Logan and some other guy cried on the front lawn during a group hug, and right in front of all the children. It's a real buzzkill, a real TMI. "Is Logan okay?"

"He seems fine." She waits a couple of seconds. "It's the other guy I'd be concerned about. Like I said, he's a hot mess."


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey Desperado, where you been?" Dan said when Remy stepped into the living room. After Collette's reading he'd gone for a walk through the orchards to clear his head. Outside it was still dark but nearly morning.

Dan was sitting on the sofa, his legs tucked under him, reading some thick book.

"Is that the bible?" Remy asked. "You got Jesus now?"

Dan grinned and showed him the cover. "Balzac."

Remy spun on his heels and went for the kitchen. In the refrigerator he found a cold beer and popped it open. Then he headed back into the living room and sat down on the armchair adjacent to the coffee table and the sofa. He set his beer on the coaster and took his deck from his coat pocket. He knew Dan was watching him while he cut the cards and shuffled them once.

"I've been thinking," Remy said. He set the cards down and fiddled with his beer. Took a sip. Took his coat off and let it drop around him. Finally got up the guts to look Dan in the face. "Maybe I should get my own place. Let you have this one to yourself."

Dan closed the book and sat up. "Now why would you do a silly thing like that?"

He shrugged and sat back. Tried his best poker face, casual and cool. "You have your books, I have—" He gestured to the cards.

"Where did you go tonight? I've been waiting up for you."

"Did you have someone over?" Remy asked. He inhaled. The air smelled faintly of another person. And sex.

Dan laughed. "Hours ago. No _loquita_ is about to walk out of the bathroom, if that's what you were wondering." He put his hands on his knees and leaned toward the coffee table. "Okay, so you want to be all coy?" He gestured to the deck of cards. "So deal me in. I win, you tell me where you were. You win, you get to keep any and all pertinent information away from your long-suffering roommate."

Remy picked up the deck and handed it to him. "You deal. Texas Hold 'em."

"Afraid you might be tempted to cheat?" Dan accepted the cards and started to shuffle.

"I—I don't cheat," Remy said quietly.

"Right, you never cheat." He shuttled two cards across the coffee table and laid down two for himself.

Remy checked his hand. An eight of spades and a two of clubs—junk. He set the cards face down and watched as Dan checked his. Right away he could tell that Dan had something—pocket jacks maybe. Or a king. This would be the time to fold, but Remy didn't want to.

Dan looked up. "So I'll raise you, Desperado. You win? Then you can do what you want. Move out. Go somewhere else. Crash with Lila from the art gallery."

Remy stared at Dan—took in the straight line of his nose, the highness of his cheekbones. "If you win?"

"I do what you want." He smiled. Check. He had Remy and he knew it. He inched across the sofa and reached for Remy's beer, cards still in his hand left hand. He turned over the flop. A four of clubs, a king of hearts, and a jack of diamonds.

Remy didn't even look at the cards. "You really want to make that bet?" Remy leaned back in his chair, but the bluff was hollow. It was happening. It was already happening. He couldn't drag his eyes away from Dan. Fold. Now.

Dan reached the end of the sofa. He reached for Remy's arm, which was draped over the armrest of the chair. "I'm all in. What about you?"

He exhaled slowly. He felt stuck to the chair. He wanted to pull his eyes away from Dan.

Now Dan slid from the sofa so that he was kneeling next to Remy's chair. He picked up Remy's hand and held it in his. With his right hand, he reached back and laid his cards down on top of Remy's, face up. Nine of spades, five of clubs. Jesus Christ. He'd never misread anybody like that before.

Remy inhaled sharply. His head rolled back and he looked up to the ceiling. He felt Dan's hands press against his abdomen. He reached down, without looking, and cupped Dan's cheek, his jaw line. He placed his fingers behind Dan's ear.

Dan was already going for his zipper.

He swallowed and placed his left hand on Dan's. "No, not here," he managed to say.

Dan stood up and dragged Remy to his feet. He led him through the short hallway and into his bedroom. Remy felt half drunk. He was hard already. Too hard. He flopped down on the bed and Dan was hovering over him. The sun was coming up outside and inside the bedroom their movements cast shadows. Dan was working his jeans open, straddling him now. Opening his fly, reaching for him. He bent down and took Remy into his mouth.

Remy braced himself, gripping the edge of the nightstand with his left and hand pressing his right hand against Dan's shoulder. There was a lamp on the nightstand. He let out a ragged breath, but not a moan. He was past moaning. He was five seconds into a blowjob and he was going to come. He buckled under Dan's weight and let go of himself. The nightstand rattled.

The lamp exploded.

It took a second for Remy to take stock of the situation. As quickly as he'd managed to come he managed to realize what had just happened. Dan had leapt back and yelped. He was at the end of the bed, panting. The lamp no longer existed. And Remy had to take it all in. He lay back onto the bed, hating himself.

Some time went by. He didn't know how long. He stared at the ceiling as the early morning got a little lighter. Then he heard Dan stand up. He watched as he went around and inspected where the lamp had been. Then he looked down at Remy.

"I'm sorry," Remy whispered.

Dan lowered himself back onto the bed and leaned over Remy. His face was just inches away. Then he looked down. With one hand, he managed to put Remy's dick back into his pants and zip up his fly. "It's not voodoo, is it."

"No." His breathing had returned to normal.

He took Remy's left hand in his. "Does it hurt?"

"Not really. Sometimes afterwards. Here." He brought Dan's knuckles to his brow.

" _Mon Dieu_." He laughed a little then, and that broke the tension.

Remy pulled himself into a sitting position and dropped his legs over the side of the bed so that he was sitting next to Dan so that their shoulders were touching. Dan turned and put his arm around him. Then, he kissed him. Slipped his tongue between his lips. That was also new. No one had ever kissed him after a blowjob before. (No one had dared.) Finally Remy pulled his mouth away from Dan's and rested his forehead against his collar bone. (He'd never felt so vulnerable.) Dan's fingers worked through his hair. He cupped the back of Remy's head.

After several minutes, Dan inhaled through his nose, drew back and reached under the bed for a bottle of whiskey. One arm still slung around Remy, he held the bottle between his knees, unscrewed the cap with his other hand, and offered him the bottle. Remy took a swig and then handed it back. Dan took a swig and then put the bottle down on the floor. Then he tilted Remy's chin up and kissed him again. He reached for Remy's left arm and pulled away from the kiss. He looked down at the needle marks and placed his fingers there. "Why? You need to tell me. No one does this to themselves without a reason."

Remy looked down at Dan's fingers as they worked themselves around each new and old wound. "In other places—other cities around the country—they say 'mutant.' Have you heard them? Have you heard what they say?"

Dan didn't ask any more questions just then, and Remy was grateful.

###

There are many ways to do heroin. You can smoke it or inhale it. You can snort it, as you would cocaine. You can also inject it. This way is most popular because it produces an instantaneous, indescribable high.

When you run out of veins on your arms, you can inject yourself in other places. You can inject heroin between your toes. You can inject it behind your knees. Very severe addicts must often resort to this.

When we last saw Remy in Ohio, he was running out of good veins. He was also doing quite a bit of heroin just so he could function. And when he could function, he did quite well—saving Logan's life, for instance, and flying a plane. He was lucky, and he was a mutant. His tolerance level was high. But everyone's luck runs out eventually. Everyone has to lose.

Let's raise the stakes. Let's go all in. Remy's done for. He's about to die.

He hitchhiked to Cincinnati with a truck driver who looked like an old woman. Dude was weathered, and it didn't help that he was listening to some depressing-ass news on the radio. An accident with a nuclear reactor at Three Mile Island.

"I've never even heard of this place, Three Mile Island. Have you?"

"Nope," Remy said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.

"The world's about to end," the truck driver said. He was also sweating. He was gushing like a faucet. This guy was terrified. Remy was so clammy and gross and sick-looking that this guy must have thought he was also taking the whole nuclear meltdown thing really hard. "When we get to Cincinnati, I need to call my ex-wife." He looked over at Remy and turned the radio down. "Who do you want to call, son?"

There was only one name on his lips, but he said nothing.

In the suburbs of Cincinnati, the truck driver offered to buy him lunch. The guy was feeling all generous because the outlook for civilization was pretty fucking bleak, and even if we all survived, our kids would be circus freaks. Mutants.

Remy just asked to be dropped off at the bus station.

At a bus station, you can usually get whatever you want, but none of it is good. Remy found what he needed immediately—a guy who sold H. In the bathroom he set it on a piece of foil and freebased.

That definitely helped a little. The H was weak, but it did the trick. He sat on the toilet for minutes, hours—he had no idea—until he felt right enough to stand.

By nightfall in Cincinnati, he had found what else he needed: a card game in a seedy bar by the river. He put up the money he'd taken from the hotel room and quickly doubled it. Then he doubled that. He played until he had enough money to get some real H. He got the attention of a woman, too. In the bathroom he fucked her.

They got a hotel room together, a nice one. A suite. He had the money and it very well may have been the last night anyone would ever be alive. He glanced only once at the phone on the night stand. The woman was telling him to do her, do her, and he did. She was older than he was, mid-thirties, attractive but a mom. He didn't mind older women or moms. He didn't understand people who did, people who looked at stretch marks on the breasts and abdomen with distaste. It was the body, after all, and Remy loved the body and all its secrets.

At one point she took out her wallet and showed him pictures of her three kids. Why wasn't she with them on the last night of the world? Her ex had full custody. He lived in Nebraska. That was depressing. It bummed him out. There were several things he could have been bummed out about at that point—Logan, Creed (Jesus, just the sight of him had knocked the breath out of Remy's body), the fact that he'd put a hole in his favorite nightclub, those kids on the island, Dan. But the woman and her broken-apart family bothered him most.

He left her in the bed and went into the bathroom. He flicked on the light and got out a spoon and his lighter and a syringe. Then he tightened the rubber band around his arm.

He knew something was wrong the moment he injected. Something was off. His breath came out in a wheeze. He fell back against the wall and slid to the floor. He was seizing. The needle was still in his arm. He tried to reach over to take it out and without meaning to he was giving it a charge.

The door burst open. The woman. She was naked, her breasts swinging. Her mouth was moving but he couldn't hear what she was saying.

He tossed the syringe under the toilet. It exploded.

She was screaming, he could tell, but he couldn't hear her. She jumped back. She jumped back out of the bathroom and into the other room. He knew she was leaving him, splitting, skedaddling. Leaving him to die. His heart was beating in his ears. Then it wasn't beating at all, and then he couldn't see anything.

###

The lamp incident—to which Remy would always refer with a kind of reverence and longing, even when talking with Logan, to whom he eventually told everything—didn't change things that much. At first. Do you think he and Dan stopped swinging after that? No ma'am. Things went on just as they had before. If anything, they found it in themselves to fuck other people more enthusiastically. Just one of those things. But now things were different, uh-huh.

They did stuff in the early mornings. This seemed to be their time. There'd be a woman passed out in the living room or in Remy's room—sometimes two—so they'd sneak into Dan's room and shut the door and fool around as the sun came up. In the half-moon dawn light, they'd explore each other's bodies. Dan had four freckles beneath his collar bone. Remy had a blue vein along his hairline. The whiteness of Dan's cuticles matched his palms. "Can I suck your toes?" Dan whispered.

"Sure." He chuckled as Dan grasped at his feet.

One morning he was working on Dan. He came up in the middle of giving a blowjob to blow on the line of sweat that had formed on Dan's stomach. Dan groaned. He gripped Remy's back and pressed his face hard against his abdomen. Remy reached between Dan's legs, and Dan came on his chest. He rolled off of him then, skin glistening with come and sweat, and lay next to Dan and listened to his breathing return to normal. "Here," Dan said, turning to get up so he could reach for a towel.

Remy grabbed his arm. "No, it's okay. It's okay, it's okay, come here."

Dan lay back down and threaded his arms around Remy. He kissed his face, pulled him close. Pushed his hair back from his face. Serious now. "I wish you weren't so sad. _Mi nene_ , you're haunted. I don't want you to be sad anymore."

Why did Dan say these things? Remy'd never known anyone like this before, someone who bluffed and beat him at poker at one turn and then talked about big feelings—sadness and happiness—at the next. Before they went out in the evening, Dan would find him sitting on the sofa, sidle up next to him, and hold his hand while they watched the nightly news.

(When Dan left for class each morning, Remy would go into the bathroom and fix. He'd cry then, about everything. He was both distraught and thankful, if those two feelings could coexist in a person at the same time.)

"How the hell could I be sad?" he asked Dan. "I just won four grand last night."

"You can't bluff me. I'm the only person you can't bluff, and you know it."

He turned his head away from Dan at an angle. Dan was exploring his hairline now. He'd already found one scar near his ear, another at the back of his head. Now he ran his thumb along the scar next to his ear. "You're my boy. Who did this to my boy?"

Remy brought his hand up to cover his eyes. He felt like he could puke. He was already sweating.

Then he heard someone call his name from outside the door. "Remy?"

"Oh, shit," Dan said and pulled himself off of the bed.

"Remy, where are you?" a woman's voice called from the hallway.

Dan pulled his shorts on and went to the door. Remy rolled over so that he was facing the wall. The blade of light darted into the bedroom. He closed his eyes.

"Where's Remy?" Serafina asked when Dan cracked open the door. "Is he in here?"

"Hey darlin', he ain't feelin' well." He could hear Dan's face break into a conspiratorial smile. "You want me to fix you something? Some café con leche? You want to use the shower?"

She paused. She wasn't stupid. None of them was. "No, that's okay," she said. Cheerful-like. "I can see myself out."

"You sure, honey? Let me walk you to your car."

"That's okay, I'm right out front," she said. Remy could hear her car keys jingle in her hand. He listened as she said goodbye and Dan walked her to the door.

Dan came back to the bedroom and knelt on the mattress, leaning back on his feet.

"She knows," Remy said, facing the wall.

"She doesn't know about us. She doesn't know anything."

But Remy was a mutant. He'd spent his entire life studying people, listening to the cadence of their voices and watching the amount of light and dark in their eyes, trying to find out how much they knew.

Dan bent over and whispered in Remy's ear. "And so what if she knows."

Remy sat up, still facing the wall and away from Dan. "I can't have people knowing. It's nothin' personal, Dan. But with what I do—I can't stand it if people know about you." He glanced over his shoulder. He could tell Dan wasn't taking this the way he intended it. He had to clarify. "It's about safety. It's about my business." He paused. "Where I've been."

Dan crept up behind him and placed his hands on Remy's shoulders. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be afraid of because you won't tell me." Dan kissed his shoulders. The back of his neck. "Why won't you tell me?"

"For your protection."

"Bullshit," he said, then ran his tongue along Remy's shoulder blade.

 _Because you're not built for this kind of knowledge_ , he thought.

But Dan was already working his hands over him. Working him into something else. He wrapped his arms around Remy's chest and pulled him back onto the bed. He felt Dan's breath quicken. Dan gently rolled him over onto his stomach. Remy's cheek was pressed into the mattress. He tried shaking his head. Tried pulling out from under Dan.

"What's wrong?" Dan asked, breathy.

"I don't—" He pulled his head up and looked at Dan. He wanted to say, "I don't let anyone fuck me," but it seemed so tawdry.

Dan kissed him. "It'll be okay. I'll be nice. I promise." Got up then. Took off his shorts. Went to get something from the nightstand. (They had pulled the nightstand away from the bed and taken away the headboard so that Remy couldn't break anything). He put his head back down on the bed as Dan got the lubricant. He shut his eyes.

Dan was back, his hands on Remy's clammy forehead. "Hey, hey, Desperado. You look awful. I'll cut it out. We won't do it if you don't want it."

"I do," he whispered.

"You sure?"

He nodded into the mattress. He was just so plainly in love that he didn't mind being seduced. Didn't mind being fucked, either. He felt his eyes glow—he couldn't help that as well.

Dan was making love to him now. It was nice, having him inside. He did like it—too much. Dan reached around with one hand and Remy came almost immediately. It was sort of embarrassing, how quickly he came with Dan. Dan never said anything about it, though, never even joked. He reached for Dan's hand and shared his energy with him, just a surge (he'd learned to control it but he had to be paying attention), and he felt Dan come, softly. He didn't pull out, not for a while. He stayed there and ran his hands over Remy's back. "Tell me," he whispered.

Remy drew in his breath and felt tears starting at the corners of his eyes. All of this—this was just too much. He pulled away. He got up from the bed and found his shorts in the early morning light. Then he found his tee-shirt.

In the bathroom, he took his stash from underneath the sink. Got out his lighter. Then, he looked down at the purple marks on his arm. Christ. Soon enough and he wouldn't be able to hide this anymore. His veins could collapse—he'd heard of that happening to people. So he'd freebase. He'd freebase from now on so that there wouldn't be any needle marks. The high didn't last as long as it did when you mainlined, but. Then, he stopped. He could hear Dan in the kitchen, rinsing cups and boiling water. He'd be off to class soon. The H could wait. He wasn't quite jonesing. He washed his face and brushed his teeth. Then he left the bathroom and headed into the kitchen.

Dan looked up from the counter where he was bent at the waist, elbows supporting him, reading a newspaper and peeling an orange. He was wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. "You okay?"

Remy gestured to the kitchen table. "Sit down."

Obediently, Dan left the newspaper and the half-peeled orange and sat down at the table.

Remy pulled out the chair sat across from him. "I'm gonna tell you some things," he said. "I don't think you're built for it, but I'm gonna tell you anyway."

Dan looked very young then, looked nothing like the way he looked in bed. Looked like a kid about ready to sleep through a class.

And Remy just told him. Everything. Right there. Stryker, Victor Creed. Three Mile Island. New York. Yes, he told him about New York. He told Dan _everything._ He stared at his hands as he told the story. He stared at the table. He wished he had a cigarette.

When he looked up, he saw that Dan was crying. He had started to sob quietly, to himself. He brought his hands up to cover his eyes, and his body shook.

"Oh, Jesus," Remy said. He got up. He figured that this would be a good time to leave. He'd gather his things up and find a new place to crash. This was such a bad idea.

He started to go into the living room when he heard Dan jump to his feet. The chair shot out behind him. He turned to see Dan closing the distance between them.

Dan wrapped his arms around him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he sobbed. His face was buried in Remy's neck. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

Remy wanted to pull away, but he was stuck. He was stuck there. He felt the air leave his lungs. He was gasping. He felt his knees starting to buckle. "Oh, God," he cried. Dan pulled him tighter, held him up. He was sobbing now. Shaking against Dan, moistening his bare shoulder with tears and sweat and saliva and snot. "Forgive me." He gripped Dan closer and they just cried.

###

High noon found them sitting together on the sofa. Dan had missed all of his classes. He put a hand on Remy's knee then inhaled sharply. "Why?" This is what he kept asking. It was the question he came back to over and over again. "Why would anyone do that to a person? Why would they do that to you? The government, Jesus."

Remy clutched a pillow to his chest. He'd cried so much his eyelashes were still damp. He'd vomited before, in the toilet. He just couldn't stand to live in his own body anymore. Dan had just stood by and watched as he shot up in the bathroom, tears on his face. He knew Remy had to do it. He knew he had to fix just to breathe.

Now Dan turned toward him. "Did you ever find out . . . what happened to the people in New York after you gave Stryker their location?"

He closed his eyes. "Nothing good, I'm sure." He sat up and bent forward.

"Do you think Stryker . . ."

He opened his eyes and turned away.

"You said these people lived underground in the tunnels. Like, mole people?"

"They were just folks. Just plain folks. When I lived in New York, I knew them." He exhaled, tossed the pillow aside, and picked up the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. He took one out and put it between his lips.

Everything else about his life he could have just lived with, but that? Oh, his heart was broken.

He could have lived with the fact that he was a mutant and that people hated him for it, including the U.S. government. Had it just been that? He could have lived a right nice life. He even could have even lived with the fact that on Three Mile Island they cut him open. He could have lived with the fact that they took something from him. He could have lived with the fact that they deprived him of fresh air and sky for two fucking years.

But he couldn't live with New York.

He took the cigarette from his lips so that he could talk again and looked down at his hands, at the scars on his arm. "On the streets, among other mutants, the word is that I escaped Three Mile Island. The only living survivor to do so. It's true, but only half true. Those people paid my price. My ransom." He leaned back. "After I got away the first time, after I bribed the guards—Victor Creed found me. He's a bit psychic. You can't really run from him. You can fight him, but he always wins. He's . . . strong." He sniffed. "So that was the deal I made." He scratched his forehead. "I gave them the location of my contacts in New York in exchange for safe passage. And that's why no one has ever come to New Orleans to haul my ass back up there." He cupped his hands around the cigarette and his lighter as he lit up. He took the smoke into his lungs and held it there a while before exhaling. "Two years of torture and I never gave up those New York folks. Then, for freedom, I did. Willingly."

Dan sighed. "My God." He covered his mouth with the back of his hand.

Remy puffed again and blew the smoke away from Dan. "Every deed, good or bad, has an expiration date, though. And if there's one thing I know, it's this: I'll kill whoever comes for me. Or die trying. I'm not going back. I'm not doing no more favors. I'm not going back there to give names and locations so that they can kill more people."

"It wasn't your fault," Dan said. "You wanted to live. It wasn't your fault."

"Yeah, well." He tapped his cigarette into the ashtray. He felt something strange inside of him, a joyless laugh. "It's no consolation."

###

So enough with the call and response. Enough with the magic. Enough with the cards, enough with the Southern Comfort. Enough with the lovers. Enough with your Creole. Enough with your Cajun French. Enough with seven-card stud. Enough with your poker face--it never worked anyway. Enough with the city. It's gone now. So is everyone else. And now it is this: twenty-six years on and Storm is standing in front of him. He's at the New Haven train station and everything looks pretty shitty. A girl is with him, a college student Storm sent to look after him until she could get there. This girl is a petite, attractive brunette with an intelligent face. She has the kind of face that people love to photograph with black and white film and hang in art galleries. She is someone he could have loved in a different lifetime. But he is too old now.

Storm shakes her head when she sees him. She wears that look on her face: disappointment and discomfort. He's been the cause of so much crap.

"We looked for you," she says. "We've been looking everywhere for you."

He wishes that Logan had come to pick him up instead. Still, he doesn't say this. He stands to embrace her, and he wishes he was done with crying, but he's not.


	5. Chapter 5

Rogue arrives at the mansion on Wednesday afternoon. It's the day before Thanksgiving, three o'clock and already dark, the sun slipping behind the clouds before Rogue even has a chance to get out of her car and look around. Logan greets her and lets her park the car in the garage. She drives a '97 Ford Escort; she bought it with the money she'd saved from her summer job in the anthropology library. It has broken down twice on the New York Thruway. One time she had it towed. The other time Logan came to help. He paid for a new alternator—something he really didn't have to do. But Logan has a way of acting like nothing's a big deal. He gave the guy at the repair shop his credit card and then took her out to eat at Ruby Tuesday's.

Now he walks with her inside, his hand on her back between her shoulders. "Is school going okay?" he asks.

She looks up at him and smiles. "It's great."

"Good." In the hallway, he nods toward the TV room. "Your friends are already in there, waiting for you." He squeezes her shoulder. "We'll catch up later."

Her friends—Bobby and Kitty and Jubilee and Peter—are also back from college for Thanksgiving. They're spread out on the sofa and armchairs, watching a _Project Runway_ rerun and laughing at something. The TV is going, but they're most interested in each other, Rogue can tell. She comes up from behind the sofa. "Hi guys."

They all turn around. "Hi!" Kitty says hugely, and jumps up to run around the sofa and hug Rogue. (She could have just walked through the sofa, but Rogue's glad she decided to put in some effort.) The others follow. Bobby's grinning as he hugs her and asks her how she's doing; they're all grinning like it's something they've practiced.

Kitty tells Rogue that they're bunking together in a spare bedroom on the third floor. It's the extra single, the room someone always takes if they're sick or having roommate problems that can't be resolved in a single day. The mansion's overcrowded as it is, though, with so many new students. Rogue's old room has been put to good use. It's now a triple shared by three girls with some telepathic abilities.

"Sounds good," Rogue says. Kitty helps her upstairs even though Rogue tells her she can manage.

In the bedroom, Kitty sits on the bottom bunk and watches as Rogue stashes her suitcase in the corner and takes out a bottle of contact solution.

Rogue answers the questions about school and her trip down—it was fine, everything was fine, no car trouble. She can tell Kitty wants to tell her something, something Rogue probably doesn't want to hear. Her stomach lurches a little. She figures Bobby and Kitty are together, and though Rogue hasn't been with Bobby in a while—she's since had a boyfriend in Plattsburgh—she still doesn't want to hear about it. She turns to Kitty. "I'll be back down in the TV room in a sec. But I have to write this thing down before I forget it."

"Oh?"

"My junior thesis," she says. "I had a major breakthrough on the drive down."

"That's great," Kitty says, putting her hands on her thighs and standing up to walk out of the room. This time she walks through the door. Rogue rolls her eyes.

Rogue doesn't know why she came back to the school for Thanksgiving break. It seemed like a good idea at the time, when she was up in Plattsburgh and everyone was cramming their dirty laundry into their trunks. She didn't want to spend the holiday with the international students, listening to them speak Mandarin or Hindi or Farsi together, eating canned cranberries in the dining hall.

She needs a moment to gather herself. She goes into the bathroom, washes her hands, adjusts her sweater, and combs back her hair. Then she goes down to the second floor, the floor she used to live on. She knows she will have to say hi to Storm pretty soon; might as well get it over with.

On the second floor, she can hear kids chatting and laughing together, music playing from the rooms, doors slightly ajar. They have the day off. She remembers what it was like to walk these hallways after she'd returned from the city. When she got the cure. A hush would fall over the hallway when she walked to the bathroom, to class, to see Bobby. She got looks—disdainful and sad, but mostly curious. She still gets looks, but less often. People have gotten used to it. Many of the kids who were around then have moved on, but some still remember. Everyone knows.

She pauses as she approaches a door near the end of the hallway. It's halfway open—open enough to be inviting. It's John's old room. She slows down and peers inside.

There's a man inside. He's sitting at the desk facing the window. He's bent over the desk and there are playing cards spread out beneath his finger tips. A radio is playing soft bachata music. Right away she knows that this is the guy Kitty was talking about. She feels the inevitable let-down of such a moment. He's much smaller than she had imagined. His hair is longish, shoulder-length, and tangled in the back. She's disappointed because he seems so ordinary.

He senses someone is there and slowly turns his head. Then, a slow smile. He turns back around to the cards. "Well hello there."

"Hi." Suddenly she feels shy. She stands there, her hands in her back pockets.

"Don't you wanna come in?" He turns the chair so that he is facing her. He motions to the bed. "Come on. Come on in."

She steps inside of his room. She honestly hasn't been inside of that room since John defected.

She knows she's moving too indecisively for his tastes. He gets up from his chair and holds out his hand. "My name's Remy LeBeau."

She holds out her own hand and shakes his. (For months after the cure, she couldn't get used to shaking hands. And at college, when she first got there, she'd have this moment of panic when first meeting a person.) "I'm Marie," she says, "but everyone here calls me Rogue."

"Ah, I had a feeling," he says, gripping her hand and pulling her closer. He gestures again to the bed. "I've heard so much about you." They both sit down. "From Logan. He thinks the world of you. Talks about you all the time. I was hopin' you was you."

She loves his accent, his cadence. It's a little different from hers. Right away she's relaxed. She knows he's bullshitting, but she appreciates the effort. "How long have you known Logan?" she says.

"We go back far," he says. "I could tell you some stories. But later. How about you? Tell me all about yourself. Where you from, _petite_? I hear an accent." He smiles and waits for her to speak again.

Rogue can't get over it. _This_ is the guy? _This_? He's the cause of so much controversy? He's harmless. He plays solitaire and uses French terms of endearment. He has a young face, but she sees the crinkling of tiny lines around his eyes and on his brow. He's lived a life. His eyes are a little bloodshot—he must have been crying. And so what if he doesn't work? Is that what's so threatening, what's so disconcerting—that he doesn't feel the need to impose meaning on his life? She knows that the conflict isn't just about the fact that he doesn't work—it's a clash of cultures. It's that the Catholic, Mediterranean culture of the Gulf has run headlong into the uptight Puritan work ethic of the Northeast. It's an American studies thesis.

She starts talking. Without even meaning to, she tells him everything—Mississippi (he has friends there, he says), Alberta, Canada, Logan in a cage (he laughs and says that's a nice mental image, Logan in a cage), Magneto, et cetera, et cetera. She doesn't know why, but he has the sort of face she wants to tell everything to. He really pulls her in. He asks all the right questions, questions that open things up but don't make her uncomfortable. In twenty minutes, she's given him the highlights of her life. He's leaning back in his chair, his legs crossed in front of him.

"So what do you plan to do with your wonderful self?" he asks her. "Once you get your education? You gonna come back here and teach? You gonna help Storm and Logan run this big, busy place?"

"No, no," she says quickly, shaking her head. "It's not really— I mean, I'm not—I'm not a mutant anymore."

He blinks.

Logan must have left that part out when he told Remy how wonderful she is. "I took the cure. I just come back to visit once in a while. After I graduate I'll probably get a job in New York or Boston."

He stares at her for a second, long enough to make the moment slightly uncomfortable. Then he seems to come back to himself. He smiles. "That sounds real nice."

"So what about you?" she says. "I heard you were in New Orleans when the storm hit."

He stands and reaches out to take her hand in his. "Let's go into the kitchen. Do you want some café au lait?"

In the kitchen it's dark because the sun has gone down so early, but he turns on only one light—the one above the sink. She sits at the counter and waits as he makes the coffee. He says nothing as he prepares it. Then he sets a mug in front of her and slides onto the bench across from her. "This won't spoil our dinner. It's so important," he adds, "to drink and eat things that taste good. It's something they don't understand up here, do they? They make jambalaya with breakfast sausage."

She watches as he takes out his deck of playing cards and shuffles them. " _Vingt-et-un_ ," he says. "You play?"

Without waiting for her to answer, he deals her two cards. He deals himself one card face down and the other face up. He has a king. "Hit," she says. She ends up with nineteen and stays, but he turns over a queen.

"You're a very lucky girl," he says. "You came very close to beating me. And you're a risk taker, which I like. If you stick around, I'll teach you all my tricks."

"All?" she says. Now she really is flirting with him. Shamelessly.

He winks. He turns over what would have been her next card: a two.

Suddenly the room lights up. Logan walks into the kitchen. He does a double take at the scene—Rogue and Remy sitting across from each other, their elbows on the counter, the cards between them—but he doesn't say anything. "Gumbo, I need your help at the depot."

"Sure thing. Let me grab my coat."

"Can I come?" Rogue asks.

"Of course."

Remy gets all decked out to go the depot. He shows up again quickly, but Rogue notices that he's changed his shirt and put on some boots. He also has on a pair of gloves. It's not _that_ cold outside, but he must still be getting used to it.

He lets her sit in the front seat of the truck with Logan. He's very quiet as they ride through the dark forest, while she and Logan talk about what's been happening with the school and what the plans are for Thanksgiving. "Did Kitty tell you?" he says. "We've managed to set up an endowed chair for a visiting professor to come each spring and teach biology. It's called the Jean Grey Professorship. Her family put up the money." He sighs.

"That's great," Rogue says, but she feels empty. She doesn't know what else to say. She knows that Logan loved Jean—he's told her that much. Not that he needed to tell her. She also finds it difficult to be so invested in the school when she has no personal stake in mutant issues. She feels everyone slipping away from her, including Logan. In a few years she will be in New York or Boston or D.C., working some job, calling him on occasional weekends until she really has no need to call him anymore at all.

"Now we're just looking for someone to take the gig."

She can hear Remy in the backseat, shuffling his deck of cards.

When they get to the depot to pick up their supplies, she helps Logan and Remy load the back of the truck. Not that they need any help—both of them pick up the crates as though they're handling bread baskets.

On their way back, they stop at a package store. Rogue waits in the car.

When they get back to the mansion, Remy jumps out of the car and helps direct Logan as he backs up to the storage area. "I swear to God, he loves this part," Logan mutters. "He loves telling me where to go."

She helps them unload the supplies into the shed. She watches as Logan unpacks crates of milk and puts them into a large, room-sized refrigerator. Remy unpacks loaves and loaves of bread and boxes of frozen chicken patties. "At least you remembered to get some rice this time," he says when he reaches a bag at the bottom of the box.

When they're finished, they turn to go into the mansion together. Rogue clasps her hands together. Now she's cold. They're nearly at the rear door when Logan takes out a cigar. He touches her arm. "Wait a minute," he says and stops.

Remy's already opening the door. She can smell dinner and feel the warmth. The food at the school is premade and prepared by a couple of local cooks, but she remembers it tasting better than the dining hall food at Plattsburgh. "You coming in, _amis_?" He holds the door for them.

"Give us a minute," Logan says. "We're having a smoke before dinner."

"That sounds like a fine plan," he says. "I'll see you shortly." The door swings shut.

Rogue waits to hear what Logan is going to tell her. At first he talks around it. "Things going okay at school? _Really_?"

"Yes, Logan," she says.

"You seem down." He puffs on his cigar and looks away.

She knows this isn't his best suit. Logan has talents—he pretty much runs the day-to-day operations of the school and oversees a couple of classes (mostly martial arts and defense techniques, though he does monitor the art studio and computer lab as well)—but he leaves the guidance counseling to Storm. Still, he's better at these things than he thinks he is. He doesn't flinch when faced with big problems.

"I'm stressed," she says. "Finals coming up. School's been really hard."

"You broke up with Arturo?"

"We didn't have anything in common," she explains.

"Yeah." He glances toward the door and then looks back at her. "You made a new friend tonight."

"He seems nice." She just wants to get this over with.

"He likes to be nice," Logan says. "He likes pretty girls."

"Logan." She sighs. "He's nothing but a big old flirt."

Logan takes his cigar out of his mouth and holds it between his fingers. "He's got some issues. Look, you don't have to do what I tell you to do, but I'd advise you to stay away from this guy. And I'm even not talking about . . . I'm talking about just being friends with him. He's pretty fucked up. And he's been through a time. It's not just this hurricane shit, either."

She crosses her arms. "Logan, what the fuck. I have one conversation with some old guy and play a game of blackjack and you're all over it. What do you think I am? Jesus." She steps forward to go past him and into the house.

He reaches out and grabs her arm. "Hey." He exhales. "It's not what I meant. This guy—fucked-up may be putting it mildly." He lets go of her arm. "It's this entire situation. It's him, not you. It's just . . ." He scratches his forehead with his thumb. "I think his decision to not evacuate New Orleans was deliberate." He waits a few seconds, lets that sink in. "I'm just letting you know where things stand."

She quietly forgives him. She heads back into the house to do what she's been dreading—say hello to Storm—and leaves Logan to finish his cigar.

###

That night Rogue finds out why Logan and Remy stopped at the package store: they're having a little party.

They shut themselves into the professor's old chambers where the doors open to the balcony. It's Storm, Logan, Remy, and the older college kids.

They've put Warren in charge of the children. He's a teaching assistant at the school, getting his certificate at Western Connecticut, and he's a teetotaler to boot. He doesn't go much for socializing—he'd rather be by himself, which is good news for them. They can let Warren be Warren and close the doors and laugh and drink wine and beer. Remy sits in the center of the sofa and holds court. He tells stories and says ridiculous things. He comes up with all these "sex is" metaphors. "Sex is like combing wet hair in a wind tunnel."

Bobby bursts out laughing and takes another sip of wine. Jubilee and Peter have the arm chairs. Rogue is sitting next to Kitty on the loveseat, and Logan has slipped out to the balcony to have another cigar.

Storm is at the wet bar, refilling her glass. When she comes back she places her hand on Remy's shoulder. "Are you okay? Can I get you something?"

"I'm great, _chere_ ," he says and pats her hand.

If there's any tension between them—between the three of them—Rogue can't see it. Right now she's just so content with this. It's a warm, intimate setting. The adults have let them into their world. They're lonely, perhaps—without Scott and Jean and the professor. They miss the college kids when they're away at school. They long for grown-up company.

"You're sitting alone on that couch," Storm says. "Wonder why?"

"I never wonder about anything." He leans back on the armrest. "So make me not so alone." He pulls at her hand and guides her around until she's sitting next to him. He looks up at them all. "Let me tell y'all a story," he begins.

"Is this one going to end with someone upside down in a tree?" Kitty asks.

Remy takes a sip of wine and then laughs. "Listen to this child. She's something. She'd never sell her hen on a wet day." He puts his glass down on the coffee table. "This one's about the professor. Back in '93, we had business in the UK."

"Oh my God," Storm groans.

"What business?" Peter asks.

"The business end of it doesn't matter," Remy says. " _Mon Dieu_ , why ask about business? Just know that it had to do with very powerful men and an important woman. A woman so beautiful she could bathe in _merde_ and still drown the sun in the Atlantic."

Logan chooses this moment to walk in from the balcony and close the doors. "What?"

"Shush, Logan," Remy says. He waits until Logan is seated and then launches into a story about how their business ended on kind of a sour note, but it was okay. Storm, Hank, and Remy had the jet. Scott and Jean were supposed to take the professor to a conference in Italy where he was meeting with some important folks. International mutant issues. But the whole thing turned out to be kind of a bust. Scott got such a nasty headache that he couldn't go anywhere, and Jean got food poisoning from some bad oysters. "How a girl could be so psychic and still sit down and eat oysters is just beyond me," Remy adds. "She knew how the shit was prepared better than anyone else, but she ate them anyway. 'Oh, Remy,' she used to tell me, 'but they're fine.' She was a champion of bad food, let me tell you."

Invoking Jean should cast a pall on the conversation, but Remy is skillful enough to keep it light. He smiles. Then he talks about how Storm was piloting the jet back over the Atlantic when Jean called her and left a message to tell her to come pick the professor up so that she can fly him to his conference in time. Except that Storm didn't get the message. She just assumes that everything's cool with Jean and Scott.

Well, they're not back in New York for five minutes when the professor's voice comes roaring through their heads. "'Storm! Storm!'" Remy shouts. "'Where the fuck are you?'"

Remy collapses back onto the sofa, laughing. They're all laughing, including Storm.

"He did not say 'Where the fuck are you?'" Storm interjects.

"He did too," Remy said. "The man was foul. Oh, I loved it when he talked dirty. Anyway," Remy continues, "we fire up the jet and haul ass back over the Atlantic. We fly through the goddamn night." He sits up and fiddles with his almost-empty wine glass. "When we get there, jetlagged and sleep-deprived, we find that Scott and Jean are at a hotel, recovering from their respective illnesses. They look like shit. They're like, 'What the fuck are you doing here?' We're like, 'We've come to get the professor.' They're like, 'We don't think anyone needs to get the professor.' They give us the address where he's staying.

"We show up to this woman's house—Dr. Moira MacTaggart, maybe you've met her—" he raises his eyebrows—"quite a woman, yes? And Charles is like, he's set. We walk in the door and that motherfucker is grinning and smiling like a fat cat at a Texas tea party. He's like, 'What are you doing back here so soon?'" Remy slaps his legs, laughing.

Storm shields her eyes with her hand. "He did look really happy."

Bobby and Kitty are laughing. Everyone's laughing—everyone's rosy and happy from the wine. Remy tells a story well.

"Dude was my motherfucking hero," Remy continues. "I've never seen him that mellow. He was all pleased with himself. He was like, 'You go back to New York. Dr. MacTaggart and I have some things to discuss.'"

"So you went back to New York?" Logan asks.

"We turned that jet around and headed for goddamn North America. Dude didn't call us for four more days. Four days!" He puts his nose in his wine glass. "Charles. My hero."

"You weren't that happy about it at the time," Storm says.

"I had tickets to the World Series," he says. "Phillies versus Jays. I had won them in the city. Had a hot date lined up for it too. Ah." He leans back against the arm rest. "But that's okay. That look on the professor's face is a worthier memory."

Logan gets up from his chair and approaches the sofa. "Scoot over," he tells Remy and Remy obeys. Logan sits down next to Storm.

"Well, that's that," Remy says, shaking his head about it. He looks over at Kitty. "See? Not a tree story. A story about the professor getting his due."

Logan reaches over and puts his arm around Storm. He doesn't just drape his arm across the back of the couch; he puts his arm around her shoulders. He rubs his thumb along her upper arm and she leans into him.

Rogue wants to look away, but she can't. She catches Remy's gaze and drops her eyes.

Of course Logan and Storm are together. How stupid of her to not see it before now.

"I don't see what the big deal is," Logan says. "So the guy had a sex life."

"Logan never sees what the big deal is," Remy puts it. "Logan being funny is like Logan getting laid. In that, for him it never happens."

Peter laughs and Bobby says, "Ouch."

"That's not nice," Logan says, calm now. Too calm to put up a fight.

Everyone else is smiling and laughing, but Rogue is finished. She's trying to work through her thoughts. She's wondering why she didn't know about Logan and Storm, why no one has told her. Maybe they felt it was obvious. Maybe Logan assumed Kitty would say something, and Kitty assumed Logan would say something. In any case, it's a wound that she needs to be alone with. She wants to turn in already and is glad that things seem to be wrapping up. Remy's singing now, in French, and that seems to be some universal cue. Everyone stands and stretches and picks up their empty glasses. Jubilee giggles about something and turns to chug the rest of her wine.

Out in the hallway, they're all still giggling and someone shushes them. "Good night, dear ladies," Remy says to Kitty and Rogue as they head for the stairs. "Pleasant dreams."

"I look forward to you carving the turkey tomorrow," Kitty says. She and Remy start to have an exchange.

But Rogue doesn't stay for it. By the time Kitty gets to the room, she is already in bed, her clothes in a corner, the sheets and covers tight around her. She waits for Kitty to turn out the light.


	6. Chapter 6

At first he was conscious only of light and pain. Of being held down by an incredible weight. He didn't know where his body was. Then, he heard it: beeping. The sound of a vitals monitor. A hospital noise.

He reacted. He opened his eyes to see a white space, then a tiled ceiling, then a curtain, then the frame of a door. He tried to sit up. No, no good. Too much pain, He clamped his eyes shut and groaned.

It was happening. All over again.

His chest heaved. He tried sitting up again. He clawed the sheets from his body. He pulled the oxygen mask from his face and then ripped the taped-on electrodes from his skin. Then he tried to climb out of the bed. His legs collapsed beneath him. He started crawling. He turned and grasped the bed from which he'd just fallen.

The door swung open. He braced himself.

"Mr. McCafferty?" called a woman's voice. "Mr. McCafferty."

He turned to see white shoes and scrubs.

"Mr. McCafferty, here, let me help you get back into bed." The woman was coming toward him. He squeezed his eyes shut. He felt her hands on his arms and his back.

"Don't touch me," he gasped.

"Mr. McCafferty, I think you better—"

He summoned whatever strength he had and pushed her away, sending her into the vitals monitor. She reached out her arms to steady herself and then stood straight again, stunned. She turned and ran from the room.

He was wearing nothing but his underwear. He needed to find his clothes. He needed to get the hell out of here.

He pulled himself up from the bed. He found himself now strong enough to stand, but he was in pain, and the pain was something he remembered. It hummed through his body. It smelled like blood and metal. It tasted like yellow.

The nurse returned to the room with a man—a doctor, he guessed. The guy had a clipboard and a white coat. He was fifty-ish, brown hair with wire framed glasses. Another nurse's aide stood behind them, a heavy black woman in pink scrubs. Her hair was pulled back.

"Adam McCafferty? I'm Dr. Steve Tuohy."

Who the hell was Adam McCafferty?

The room was now very crowded. The doctor seemed to loom over him. He held out his arm and began some kind of explanation. "You overdosed on heroin last night. You went into cardiac arrest. The woman you were with called an ambulance. You were very lucky that she did."

Adam McCafferty was the guy whose wallet he had stolen. From the motel.

"It's best if you get back into bed and let us take care of you."

He stared at the doctor. He didn't move.

"The amount of heroin in your system should have killed you. It's—it's medically unbelievable that you're up right now. When the paramedics found you, you were clinically dead. You need to let us help you come off the drug."

When his voice finally came, it came with such fierceness that it surprised him. "I need my things."

"Mr. McCafferty, I don't think that's a good idea, you nearly died—"

He forced himself to stand up straight and take a step toward the doctor. "You need to get me my fucking clothes." He eyes glowed.

Everyone took a step back. The doctor turned to the nurse. "Get him his things."

The nurse ran from the room again. The doctor and nurse's aid stood back against each side of the door frame. The room was no longer too crowded. When the nurse returned, the doctor took the bundle from her and set it on the chair next to the bed.

They shrank back and watched as he dressed. He pulled on his jeans and his shirt. He slipped into his shoes without bothering to put on his socks. The ordeal was exhausting—he barely had the energy to lift an arm let alone dress himself—but he managed to steel himself against the pain. Behind his eyes he saw white lights. He forced himself to breathe slowly. He tucked his socks into his back pocket and took his jacket and the wallet in his hands.

"Excuse me," he said as he pushed past the nurses and doctor in the doorway.

The hallway was bright. He strolled down the tiled floor holding his things. Nurses and aides watched from doorways. At the nurses' station, two women stood and stared as he made his way to the exit sign.

He didn't run until he reached the stairwell.

###

Once he'd put several blocks between him and the hospital, he put on his jacket (it was too cold outside) and tossed the wallet in a dumpster. Near an alley on the edge of the downtown area, he stopped and collapsed on a curb. He guessed it was mid afternoon, but no one was around. He realized he was sobbing. He wrapped his arms around himself and cried. His nose wouldn't stop running.

There was a payphone at the end of the block.

Remy knew, even then: Always, eventually, you will have to call home.

He dialed the operator again to call collect. The voice that came wasn't Dan's; it was Serafina's. He heard her shout something.

Then: "Remy? My fucking God."

He mumbled something in reply—he couldn't remember what.

Dan let loose a string of Spanish words that Remy couldn't follow. "Where the fuck are you? We've looked for you in every inch of this city for the last two days. The cops are all over the club. Some black cowboy got killed. The place is completely destroyed. About eighteen witnesses put you at the scene with some other guy. They said they saw you leave with him. _Mon Dieu,_ Remy."

Remy sniffled. He felt his face scrunch up. He drew in his breath but couldn't suppress the inevitable sob that lurked at the top of his throat. "Someone finally came looking for me."

He could hear Dan's voice shaking. "Three Mile Island?" he whispered.

"I was there."

"Oh Christ, I knew, I knew." A long pause: "Are you okay?"

He clutched at the phone cord. "I OD'd."

Silence. "Remy, tell me where you are," Dan said.

Remy closed his eyes. "Cincinnati."

It might as well have been the other side of the goddamn world. At that moment that he realized how young they both were, how ill-equipped they were to grapple with these things. They were just kids. Really. He could feel Dan's fragility coming through in his tears. He felt his own body around him, so weak. It didn't matter that he was a mutant, or a bluffer, or that he'd been able to catapult himself through the air two days before—he was just a frail, scared kid.

"Remy, listen to me," Dan wept. "I'm coming to get you. In the meantime, I'm going to wire you money. Get yourself to a hotel."

"You can't wire me money," he said. "I'll just spend it on drugs."

"You won't."

"I'm in withdrawal."

A long silence. Remy leaned the side of his face against the partition. Dan said, "Listen to me. Do you see a hotel near where you are?"

"There's one down the street."

"Okay. Tell me what street you're on."

Remy dropped the receiver and jogged to the end of the block. He got the name of the street and the hotel. He came back and gave Dan the information.

"I'm gonna call them and make you a reservation. You're gonna go there and wait for me. I'm leaving right now. I'm gonna drive straight through."

Remy wept quietly. Something like joy moved through him.

"Serafina'll be here. You need something? Call home. I'll check in with her from the road." Then: "Remy, you're not going to do anything. You're not going to be bad. You're not bad."

###

He kicked right there. By himself. Cold turkey. No methadone, no clinic, no rehab, nothing. In that nice hotel room—so nice that he would have normally enjoyed himself, ordered room service, brought in a pretty lady—he kicked.

He shut himself in the bathroom.

He figured out that when he was in withdrawal he couldn't stop shaking. And when he couldn't stop shaking, he couldn't control his energy. He charged everything he came into contact with. The only safe place was the bathtub.

His nose was running and he was soaked with sweat. His hair was wet, hanging in tendrils around his face. He'd puked more times than he could count.

Eleven hours in, Dan showed up. Jesus Christ, he'd flown. The speed limit was 55—energy crisis—but Dan had to have been going seventy or eighty to make it in that amount of time. He heard the hotel door open and heard Dan call his name. "I'm in here," he said.

Dan threw open the door. He took in the scene—Remy sweating, shaking, naked in the bathtub. "Oh my God." He advanced, moving into the small space, bending to his knees.

"No," Remy gasped. He raised his arm. "You can't touch me."

Dan reached out and laid his hand on Remy's chest. Remy felt the small surge and watched as Dan toppled backward.

"I'm sorry," Remy said. "I just can't help it."

Dan rubbed his hand. "I'm gonna call a doctor."

" _Non_ ," Remy protested, louder now. "You can't. You know why you can't. I'm . . ." His voice was coming in quivery gasps.

"A mutant." Dan got up and disappeared into the room. When he came back, he was carrying a bedspread. He wrapped it around Remy and pulled him to his feet, careful not to touch his skin. He brought him out to the room and set him down the small table. He got him a glass of water. "You'll get dehydrated. Drink."

He tried touching the glass. It vibrated. He pulled his hand away.

Dan grabbed the glass and brought it Remy's lips.

After that was done, he sat down across from Remy. "What happened? Three Mile Island has been all over the news."

He told him then. He started with Logan showing up during his card game. Putting a hole through the club. The dead cowboy. Logan's steel claws. Fighting—fighting for what he assumed was his life. Victor Creed. Victor Creed and this guy Logan, fighting. Logan's vow to kill everybody and his willingness to help him. So much fighting.

Dan kept him talking. He knew that was just a tactic to keep his mind off the pain, off the sweating and dry heaving and tremors. He told him about the plane ride, Three Mile Island. The collapsed tower. The children. Finding Logan with bullet holes in his head and no apparent memory of anything. (The look on his face: lost.) The dead woman. The cops. Letting Logan slip away.

Housekeeping came to the door. Dan sent them away.

In the early afternoon, Remy curled up on the floor next to the wall, his skin pressed against the floor to take the energy away. He still wouldn't let Dan touch him. They kept the curtains pulled, but everything was still so harsh. He dreamed without sleeping. He dreamed of everything. He dreamed of the cards he'd held in his hand had before Logan had showed up at the club. He dreamed of Creed, scuttling away from Logan. The nuclear reactor. Dog tags. Hours of sleepless nightmares. On the bed Dan watched the news, pictures of the smoking cooling tower. Around five he ordered room service. It only then occurred to Remy that Dan must have been starving. He of course was not. The thought of food turned his stomach.

Around nine in the evening, Dan came over and knelt next to him. He reached out and brushed the hair back from his forehead and laid his hand there. Remy cringed, but nothing happened. "You're not doing that thing anymore," Dan said. "You look a lot better than you did this morning."

He pressed his face into the carpet. "I'm never doing this again."

Dan reached for him and brought him to the bed. He sat at the edge and Remy laid his head in Dan's lap. They watched the news reports together.

"I wanted to kill Stryker," Remy murmured, shivering.

"I'll kill him for you."

"I need to find that guy," he said, gasping as another wave of tremors took him. "Logan."

"We will."

"Promise?"

Dan squeezed his hand.

When the national anthem came on and all the stations cut off, Dan, now lying long ways on the bed with his head propped up against the headboard, started reading _Remembrance of Things Past_ , English translation. He tried reading selections to Remy, who was curled at the other end of the bed. Remy remembered that Dan had college—he must have missed so much by now. "You can sleep," he told Dan. He was cold now, the blankets wrapped around him. "I'm not going anywhere." Dan drifted off around two. Remy was finally able to sleep hours later.

When he awoke it was late. He didn't need to look at the clock or pull the curtains aside to know. Dan was up. He came over and sat next to him. "I sent housekeeping away again. I told them we had salmonella. Then I made them send bagels." He smiled and handed Remy a cup of tea. Looked like such a kid then. "I also got a newspaper. The reactor's under control. It looks like we're going to live after all." He opened the paper to the inside national news section. "I've been waiting all morning to show you this."

Remy took this folded newspaper and read the caption at the bottom of the page: _Colonel faces charges._ He read: _Colonel William Stryker, apprehended just minutes after the disaster at Three Mile Island, is to be court marshaled in connection with the death of General Munson. A military scientist, Stryker was stationed at the nuclear facility at the time of the meltdown._ Remy looked up and then kept reading. _Stryker also faces charges for mishandling what has come to be known as the worst nuclear disaster in American history._

Dan touched his knee. "Whatever you guys did, it looks like it did the trick."


	7. Chapter 7

Emotional kids scare Logan.

Storm thinks this is funny. Storm thinks a lot of things are funny that Logan does not. Luckily, they share a similar outlook on a great many other things: the future of the school, the administration of their duties, the importance of keeping up with national mutant issues. The fact that danger room training can be fun. They do not, however, seem to share a sense of humor when it comes to the kids.

"Why are they always crying?" Logan asked her one night after lights were out upstairs. "More importantly, why do they always come crying to me?"

"Because they're kids," Storm explained, laughing lightly, boiling water to make tea. They were in the kitchen together. "Kids cry a lot. They're very emotional. And these kids are especially needy."

It's times like this that make Logan long for Jean. And even Scott. He wonders how they coped with crying kids. He wonders how Scott would have handled a water balloon fight that ended badly, or how Jean mediated an unrequited middle school crush.

"Teaching at a boarding school," Storm said, "is more like parenting than straightforward teaching. Some of these kids don't have anybody. It's difficult. It's unfortunate. It makes the job that much harder."

Logan has learned that there are certain types of crying he can handle. When someone falls off a bike, for instance, or gets hurt playing basketball. When they hobble to him with sprained ankles and bloody knees. This is something he can fix. Storm says that this makes him a typical man—in the sense that he likes to fix things. Even nightmares he can handle. Nightmares are something he understands.

What he can't handle is the tough shit, the adolescent shit: Am I ugly? Am I gay? Why doesn't he like me back? Why don't my parents come visit me? These are tears that have no easy remedies. These are problems that can't be fixed. And yet, the kids bring these problems to him anyway. They don't seem to sense his discomfort. Or if they do, they don't seem to care.

He doesn't remember what it was like to be a kid. This, he thinks, is the problem.

One afternoon he was monitoring the art lab. The middle-school kids were working with papier-mâché and trying to make a piñata. He didn't really want to be helping them that day, and he hates papier-mâché. He had other things on his mind: expense reports to file, and the fact that Storm was interviewing some woman for a teaching position. Then he saw one of the kids at the back table, alone. Marian. She had laid her left cheek down on the table and was facing away from him. He walked around to see what was up.

Her face was red. Tears were leaking from her eyes and her nose was running. She was crying, silently.

"Hey kid," he said. Then he remembered what Storm had told him about needing to call the kids by their first names. "Marian."

She didn't even look up at him.

He leaned on the table. "Marian?"

She sat up, eyes red, face bloated, hair tangled, and gave him an awful look. "Leave me the fuck alone."

He thinks that there were several things he could have said to her at that point—and probably should have said—but instead he backed away. He moved to the front of the room. The other kids watched and then turned back to their work. Someone whispered something and someone coughed.

The entire thing disturbed him. A lot. He told Storm about it that night.

She laughed. "Did you at least write her up for that?"

"No. She was crying. I didn't want to make it worse."

"Oh Logan." She laughed again. "You should have left her alone in the first place. Sometimes kids just need to cry it out. Just give her a zero for the day."

Rogue presents a bigger problem. He's tied to her emotionally, and he doesn't want to see anything bad happen to her. And she's not around a lot, which makes things worse. Storm says he needs to let it go. She's at college now—an adult. She just has to find her own way. Logan says she's not an adult—she's still just a kid.

One night, a week after Thanksgiving, he walks into Storm's bedroom. (He doesn't bother to knock anymore.) She's sitting at her desk pouring over some files. They're both very busy—this is the busiest time of the year—but they'll get to unwind when many of the students go home for the winter break. He walks over to her and runs his finger along her back and then squeezes her shoulder. She looks over her shoulder and smiles.

She turns back to her file folders. "We have quite an applicant pool this year," she says, sighing. "I don't know what to do about it. I don't want to turn people away, but we just don't have the space like we used to."

He sits behind her on the bed. "It's not a bad problem to have."

"Hmm. I don't want to waitlist people, but it looks like that might happen."

He's tired. He wants her to come to bed. He never gets a lot of sleep. In the early mornings, after she drifts off, he always slips away to his own room. It's important that they maintain separate bedrooms for the sake of the children. It's also important because Logan still has nightmares—sometimes violent.

Several things surprise him about his life these days—that he's as dedicated to the school as he is, that he's sort of good with teenagers, that he's found some meaning in his life despite not recovering his memory. He's not surprised about Storm though. He's not surprised that he loves her. He's more surprised that she loves him back.

They started sleeping together eight months after Alcatraz. He was still raw about Jean and she was still raw about . . . everything. One night it just happened. And then it happened again. And then it just kept happening. It's a _relationship_ , he thinks. He loves her a lot. It's different from the love he had for Jean, but it's love all the same. It's not something he cares to categorize or quantify.

He knows she is a bit guarded when it comes to all of this. In the back of her mind, she must suspect that he'll take off again, but he's not going to do that. He knows that the heart is a lonely hunter and that every man is an island—all that—but he's accepted that he must join the archipelago.

He doesn't wait for her to finish her work. He needs to broach this particular topic. "How do you think Rogue was when she was here?"

Storm sets down her pen and swivels the chair around to face him. "What do you mean?"

"To me she just seemed . . . I don't know. Sad, I guess." He scratches the back of his neck.

Storm turns back to her desk and closes the file. "Yes. She's very sad. I think that's a good word for it." She turns back around to face him again.

"What can we do about it?"

"I'm not sure that there is anything we _can_ do. She made a difficult choice. She has to learn to live with it." She waits before going on. "I think it must be really hard for her. She's normal now, but she's been through so much that . . . Well, it must be difficult for her to find people who understand her."

"But she still has us," Logan says.

Storm looks away and shakes her head. "Ultimately she didn't choose us."

"She just wanted to be able to touch people," Logan says. He feels defensive now. He folds his arms in front of his chest.

"Sometimes it's not about what we want. It's about who we are."

He sets his hands on his legs and stands up. Walks across the room to the dresser. "I don't want to fight. I don't want to fight about this again." He glances over at her.

Rogue is an ideological conflict that they can't resolve. Logan doesn't agree with Rogue's choice but understands it; Storm just wishes she had been there to stop Rogue from leaving that day and doesn't know why Logan let her go. Logan says that Rogue was quite capable of making a choice; Storm thinks she was too young and too emotionally traumatized by the professor's death to exercise good judgment. They've reached a stalemate.

In any case, they both agree that Rogue should come home for Christmas. They both wish that she could understand that they miss her and still love her—no matter what. Unconditionally. They know she compares herself to Kitty, Kitty who studies physics at Yale and tutors the kids in science and SAT prep; Kitty who has perfected the danger room simulations much to the amazement and quiet envy of Peter and Bobby and everyone else. They wish that Rogue would see she's just as special. But it's something that Logan can't fix.

###

Remy's another problem. About him they are also conflicted. Logan says he's not hurting anything—at least not anymore. Storm agrees, but she thinks they need to start transitioning him so that he can move on. It befuddles them, how different he is now from when they both knew him. He was never this clingy. He's worse than the children. The hurricane did a number.

During most days, Remy sits in the rec room while the kids are at class and watches TV. Around three he helps with the snack. He plays card games and scrabble with some of the older kids in the evening. Then at night he returns to watching the TV. Logan's found him watching specials about the reconstruction of his city. He'll draw closer to the TV. One time, in October, Logan caught him kneeling in front of the screen. The newscaster was saying things: _People_ _left stranded by the storm . . . entire neighborhoods wiped out . . . allegations that the government chose not to evacuate certain areas . . . The mutant population wouldn't come forward for evacuation because they feared registration . . . Volunteers working with displaced populations . . ._ The camera panned back to show a city neighborhood. Remy grabbed the remote and played it back in slow motion, taking in the scene, his eyes moving back and forth.

Logan said, "Hey pal, you looking for someone?"

Remy turned his head to glance at Logan. He hadn't realized he wasn't alone. "No, no." He got up and tossed the remote onto the couch. "Shame though, isn't it. What a waste."

"Have you tried contacting people?" Logan asked.

Remy stretched his arms above his head. Cracked his shoulders. "What? Oh, yeah. I've made some calls." He walked toward the hall to go up the steps. "Good night, Logan," he said without turning around. "Sweet dreams."

One night in December, Remy is sitting in the TV room, leg propped up on the coffee table (despite the fact that the rules say that no one is allowed to put their feet on the coffee table), arm on his knee. He's leaning back on the sofa, watching a TV show about bees. He's got a cigarette tucked behind his ear despite Storm's warning about having smoking paraphernalia around the children. (Logan saves his cigars for when he's driving to the depot or inspecting the stables.)

There's a girl next to Remy on the sofa: Sadie.

Sadie is nine—one of the youngest at the school—and tragic things are always happening to her toys. Her barbies are found headless. Her stuffed animals hang from trees in the yard. Her dolls end up face down under the wheels of a car. No one can figure out who's doing it, but they suspect one of the boys. Storm swears she'll get to the bottom of it, but she's overworked with applications and proficiency test classes. Logan, also swamped with expense reports and grants, is not getting involved. Sadie terrifies him.

Sadie is the kind of girl who screams—in absolute blood curdling horror—when a boy turns his eyelids inside out or inhales milk up his nose. When they screened _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , she wasn't able to sleep for a week. (That was Logan's fault; he'd rented the movie for the kids and hadn't thought about the Nazi melting scene.) But what's worse is the crying. When Sadie loses something, she cries as though her heart would break, and she cries all the time. After dinner. Before gym class. When she can't find her shoes. She just sits down and cries. Some of the older kids try to console her, but they're sick of it. Even Storm can't handle it. She's trying to hire a full-time child psychologist for the school, but help can't seem to come quickly enough for Sadie.

Logan tries to avoid Sadie, stepping carefully around her drama. Her powers just manifested themselves the year before, younger than most kids. She can levitate, something Logan thinks might be useful in the danger room in ten years, but he doubts she'll ever mellow out enough to join the team. (Her parents believed she was possessed. He understands why.) One day he found her sitting in the window seat, staring plaintively outside. She didn't turn her head when she heard him approach. Suddenly she let out a big, ragged sigh and said, "Oh Nora, it's going to be cloudy today." Then she touched the windowpane. Logan wondered who the fuck Nora was and kept on walking.

On this night, Sadie has a sore throat. This is why she's in the TV room when everyone else is in bed. They don't think it's anything serious, but they're keeping an eye on it. Logan is sitting at the table behind the sofa comparing last month's inventory to this one's. Suddenly Sadie starts crying. Christ, he's got such a headache. He rubs his eyes with his hands. And then he looks over at the sofa.

"Oh, oh, oh," Remy says. He takes his foot from the coffee table and sits up to face her. "What is it, sweetness?"

"The bees," she sobs.

Remy has been watching a show about bees—about how the bees are all dying. Why a little girl would get upset about bees is beyond Logan. A complete mystery. He now must cross something else off the list of things he can show the kids—bee shows. 

"Oh, come here," Remy says. He reaches over and takes the girl in his arms. Just like that. No hesitation. "It's okay, _petite_. It's gonna be okay."

"But the bees," she cries.

He cups her face in his hands. "The bees are in bad shape. But they're gonna get better. You know why?"

"No," she sobs.

"Because there will always be strong bees. Bees that are stronger than all the other bees. And these strong bees will make more strong bees."

Logan closes his eyes and leans his forehead against his fist. Sadie's about to get an education. He waits for her to ask how bees make other bees.

Instead she says, "Really?" She's almost stopped crying.

"Think about us. Are we strong? Yes. We're like strong bees. That's why we keep going. That's why we gonna be here for a long time."

"You mean the bees are mutants?" she asks.

"Some are," he says. "Just like there are mutant people, there are mutant bees too. Big and strong, with better honey. Just you wait."

She's calm now. He's stroking her head. Logan has always known that Remy has some kind of weird hypnotic power—but he wonders if that's really what's just happened. Perhaps Remy is just good with crying children.

"You wanna get a glass of milk?" he asks her. "I'm fixing to get a glass of milk. Maybe some chocolate milk, huh?"

"Okay," she says, resigned, dried tears on her voice. They leave the TV room hand-in-hand.

Ten minutes Remy ambles back into the TV room without Sadie. "What happened?" Logan asks.

Remy shrugs. "I sent her to bed." He staggers back to the couch and turns up the volume again. He looks back. "Everything's kinda fucked up out there. All the bees are dying. Crazy, huh? They don't know why. Some serious shit." He turns back to the glow of the TV screen.


	8. Chapter 8

They got as far as St. Louis and stopped there. The big wide American west was unfurling before them, but they needed to eat.

Remy found that his appetite had returned, and he was ravenous. At a Denny's off the interstate, he and Dan had eaten two chicken fingers baskets, four orders of onion rings, a tuna melt, a BLT club, and two pieces of pie. They sat on opposite sides of the booth, their legs sprawled on the seats. Remy leaned back against the wall and pushed his hat down so that no one could see his eyes.

He was exhausted. He'd been motion-sick for a while, queasy and sensitive to the touch for days after the major symptoms had subsided. Now he felt rung out. "You've been through the ringer"—this is what Dan said.

Dan was talking and smoking. They were both working their way through a pack of cigarettes, the butts filling up the ashtray between them. "The way you came off it, you were a real Yankee," he was saying. "Most folks go nuts. You can't reason with them. They claw the wallpaper down. Serafina told me that when she came off of it she tried to throw her boyfriend out a window. I have to admit I was scared of you when I got there. I didn't know what I was gonna find."

Remy took a puff of his cigarette. He didn't really want to talk about this anymore.

He'd tried to encourage Dan to leave him and go back to school, but Dan wouldn't budge. He just went to a payphone at a gas station and called Serafina and told her to tell his professors that he had mono. When he came back to the car he was grinning. A large packet had arrived at the apartment: his fellowship from the Ford Foundation had come through. He'd be getting a doctorate in romance languages at Tulane.

"Hey," Dan said now. He reached over and took Remy's hat off. Then he slid his hand across the table until their fingers were touching. "It's over."

The waitress approached the table and Dan pulled his hand away. "Can I get you boys more coffee?" she asked.

"No, ma'am, just the check," Dan said. He smiled at her.

She smiled back.

When she left, Dan said, "She would sleep with us."

Remy chuckled softly, bringing his cigarette to his lips.

The waitress returned with the check. "Where are you boys from?" she asked, overcome with curiosity.

Dan put Remy's hat on his head. "Puerto Rico," he said.

"Quebec," Remy said at the same time.

"I'm from Puerto Rico," Dan said. "He's from Quebec."

Remy could tell the waitress didn't believe them. She looked down at his boots. She'd heard their lazy way of talking. He caught her eyes. Gave her that quick half smile. In Cajun he said, "You have a fabulous pair of tits, I'd love to fuck you senseless." Now she looked convinced.

When she left they both cracked up. Dan stood and placed a bill on the table. "Let's hit the bathroom before we leave."

In the bathroom, Dan pushed him inside of a stall and pressed him against the crude metal partition. His mouth covered Remy's. With one hand he locked the stall door; with the other he worked on Remy's belt buckle. Remy turned around. He let Dan work his pants around his thighs. He pressed his hands against the wall and tried not to groan too loudly as Dan entered him. It was over—for both of them—very quickly. Dan panted in his ear. The bathroom door opened. Remy turned around to face Dan, eyes wide. Dan leaned back, finger over his lips. They listened as the guy pissed at the urinal and then washed his hands for an ungodly amount of time. He was listening for them. Remy pulled up his pants. When the guy finally left, Dan leaned against Remy. Kissed him on the lips. "Do something for me," he whispered between kisses.

"Anything."

Dan brought his lips close to Remy's left ear. "Live."

###

They were looking for Logan. They figured he'd gone west, but the trail seemed to have gone cold. Remy leaned on old contacts in Kansas City and Denver. He called in favors in Salt Lake. Nothing.

The black cowboy was from Vegas, so they decided to head in that general direction. "Vegas," Dan said. "Sounds like your type of gig."

This was said in one of their calmer moments. Predictably, coming back from the dead left Remy more sexually insatiable than he had been before. And Dan seemed to catch that disease—seemed to have it worse, actually. They'd enlisted a blond airline stewardess to keep company with them in Colorado Springs, but that was mostly because Remy had gotten tired and needed someone else to take over (he was still in recovery). He and Dan were having sex four, five times a day, not counting the times they pulled the car off the side of the road to climb into the backseat to jack each other off. "We shouldn't do this," he panted one time, wiping a line of drool from the side of his mouth. "Cops."

"Oh?"

"Out-of-state tags," Remy said. "It's something I've been thinkin' about."

Dan kissed his stomach. "You don't think fine young gentlemen from Louisiana get a gentleman's welcome in Utah? Is that it?"

"Not ones with a heroin arm."

"I guess they'll just have to get to know us."

In Cedar City he looked up an old hang-out and made three thousand in one night. He needed the money—they'd have to grease palms in Vegas to get any information on Logan.

In Vegas they discovered the black cowboy's name: John Wraith. It didn't sound familiar to Remy. Not at all. He knew people—other mutants—but this guy had apparently kept a low profile. Not a lot of underground involvement. He'd lived a right quiet life. (It made Remy sad when he thought about it.)

"What was he doing in New Orleans, you think? Why was he with that Logan guy?" Dan asked as they walked out of a club and into the cool desert night.

"Mmm, I don't know." He could guess, but he didn't want to speculate with Dan. He could think of sixty reasons why mutants went places, but he wanted to keep Dan out of this shit. At one point he tried sending him back to the hotel while he talked up some people in a brothel, but Dan was just too enthusiastic to cool his heels. This world was very new to him.

At one particular casino, Remy made so much money at blackjack that he started to get looks. People assumed he was card counting and they were half right. He decided to stop scraping cards. He knew it was time to cash in and slip away. He turned to grab Dan only to find that the kid was chatting up a hostess at the other end of the room. He made his way over, the bouncers hovering behind him. There was going to be a scene. He could feel it. He grabbed Dan's arm. "We gotta go."

"Sweet sassafras jambalaya, Remy, hold on. This little _amiga_ says she knows your man."

He took a long look at the hostess. She had on a tight shirt over large breasts and short brown hair. "Yeah, I saw him," she said in a nasal accent.

"When?"

"Four days ago."

He took her by the elbow and guided her to a darker corner. Usually he wasn't this forward with people. He liked to smile a little and get them to go along with him. "What's your deal?" he asked her, looking down into her eyes.

"I know you've got six thousand, five hundred seventy-six dollars in cash in your coat pocket," she whispered. "And sixty-eight cents in your pants pocket. That's not even including the chips. It's not good to be walking around with that kind of cash on your person, but you don't fear most people, do you?" She looked back at him, grim and unsmiling.

Mind reader. She was there to catch card counters.

She said, "The cash. I want half of it. Down to the nickel. Then I'll tell you what happened to your guy."

He led her to the bathrooms near the lobby. Dan waited near the doors. "You sure you don't want a little something else, honey? Something for all your trouble?" He softened his voice and smiled. He made sure he was looking her straight in the eyes.

She rolled her eyes. "That doesn't work with me." She nodded at Dan. "I could have had your boyfriend for free by now if I wanted to. He doesn't take much coaxing, but you know that."

He took out his cash and counted it quickly. She looked down as he handed it to her. "Yeah, that guy came through here four days ago. Wild-eyed. I knew what he was when I saw him. I couldn't get a read on him, though. He seemed scrambled."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No," she said. "But I know where he was going." She looked straight at him. "Bakersfield."

"What? Why?"

"No clue. That I didn't care to figure out." She shrugged. "I gotta get back to work. The big boys are cleaning us out tonight. You didn't help things any." She shoved the wad of bills between her too-large breasts and moved past him. "Sorry I can't be more helpful. You seem nice." She smirked. "Hope your luck holds in Bakersfield."

###

In Bakersfield Logan was a ghost. They looked for three days. They hit up shopkeepers and bartenders. They strutted pool halls. They shook down local junkies. Remy didn't know folks in Bakersfield, but he sure made new friends in a hurry, lingering at diners and chatting up locals, generously tipping waitresses.

Their Vegas stash was running low.

On the fourth morning there, Remy and Dan lay in bed in a cruddy motel and watched the sun come up. Remy was too tired to make love but Dan was still enthusiastic. Remy held him and let him jack off against his leg. When he finished, Remy pulled him across his chest and stroked his hair. "You should go home," he said. "School."

Dan rolled over and looked at him. "I don't think you're gonna find this guy. Either that _flaca_ in Vegas sold us some bad intel or your man is in Hawaii by now."

Remy reached for a cigarette. "Fuckin' Bakersfield." He picked up his lighter. "I don't want to give up. I feel like I owe this guy."

"He owes you," Dan said. "You flew him up north. Saved his fucking life. Crashed your plane over it. Maybe he just doesn't want to be found."

How to explain to Dan? He couldn't. This was a thing between mutants. He owed a lot to folks—he needed to atone for New York. Yeah, that's what this was about.

"I shouldn't have let him slip away," Remy said. "He knew all about this shit. Stryker. I think Stryker had his balls in a vice at one point. He might have worked for him. Like me."

"It's not your fault," Dan said.

They agreed to go home. Remy worried about the cops, about the John Wraith murder, but Dan pointed out that it was New Orleans and the guy was a black mutant from out of town, no connections. "I'm sure no one's thinking about him anymore."

They both slipped back into their lives. Dan passed the summer playing the piano and Remy found a new club and played things close, quietly. He ignored the whispers until they died down. In the fall, Dan started his PhD coursework at Tulane and they moved to a better apartment in the Quarter. Bigger, with better furnishings. Dan got an actual lease. They also needed space for a dog; Remy had won a purebred Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy. (Pocket kings.) He stopped getting his tarot cards read. Started keeping a low profile. Kept himself out of the business down at the docks. Rang in the 1980s at a small house party with friends. Traded in his bell-bottoms for something a little sleeker. (Couldn't stop wearing those silk shirts, though.) Tried to stop thinking about New York, about Three Mile Island, but still wished that Logan would show on his front doorstep.


	9. Chapter 9

When Jean Grey drowned, Remy knew. He felt it.

The day had been a weird one. He was in Vegas on business and stopped at a casino to make a little pocket change. He needed to get his mind off of things. He'd seen shit on the news—the attack on the president, the pictures of Xavier's mansion. Anti-mutant protests. Shit was really hitting the fan. He didn't want to think about it.

In Vegas people knew what he was but left him alone. At a game of Texas Hold 'em, he started to go all in on a somewhat average but respectable hand. Then, it happened. He fell backwards in his chair and spilled onto the floor.

He thought he was dying—again. He wondered how this was possible. _Unbelievable_ , he thought, gloomily. This was just so damn fitting, to die under a table in Vegas with a ho-hum hand of cards.

He heard a voice: "Someone call an ambulance."

Another: "I think he's having an aneurysm."

Another: "Is he on something?"

And then it was over as quickly as it started. He relaxed. He sat up. The pain had left him, but he knew he'd carry a memory of it. Like everything else.

And then it happened to the other folks. They shot out of their chairs. They toppled to the floor. They started calling for their wives, their mothers. Remy tried yelling for somebody—the bartenders, the bouncers—but folks were all on the ground, twitching, clutching their heads and their clothes and their hands. Unbelievable. Messed up. He ran a hand through his hair. Paced. Couldn't think of what to do or whom to call.

Then, it stopped. People got up from the ground, crying, sobbing, gasping. The guy he'd been about to clean out climbed to his feet and grabbed him, hugging him, praising God for his life.

Remy tossed his cards on the table, picked up his jacket, and fled the casino.

Then, minutes later, as he was walking quickly down the street, something else happened. He felt the air leave his lungs. He stumbled to the curb in the mid-afternoon desert heat and gasped. He searched the crowds for someone, something. He felt sick and faint and had to sit down. He hung his head. Exhausted. This wasn't just the weird thing that had happened—whatever that was—this was something bigger, sadder, more complicated. It didn't feel surprising though. It felt like a bad promise come true.

This street in Vegas, he found out later, was where he had been when Jean Grey had drowned. She had passed through the world, taking a piece of him with her.

Of course, he didn't know this until the next day. He was having an early lunch with some business associates when his cell phone vibrated. He looked down at the number. A number he didn't recognize. He excused himself from the table and took the call.

It was Logan. Of all people.

They'd kept in touch very loosely over the years. A few months before, Logan had come through New Orleans with a story. With an intimate story about the Liberty Island affair. Remy had listened to him, his heart beating faster. His leg started twitching. He couldn't help it.

They were sitting at his kitchen table in a small garden apartment he rented outside of downtown. Remy would have liked to go to a bar, but he felt it was unwise. Things weren't good out there. People were okay with one mutant in their midst. But the presence of two or more—together, on the loose—could cause trouble. And Remy was at the point in his life where he didn't want any trouble. (Honest.)

Logan looked over and took notice of Remy's twitching. His eyes narrowed. "Hey bub," he said, "you look like you want to say something."

Remy exhaled and sat back. "I guess we know the same folks. I used to run with them," he said. "Back in the '90s."

Logan stared at him and took his cigar from his lips. Seemed pissed. "You never said anything about that."

Remy chuckled dryly. "Well cowpoke, you never asked. And I only see you once every five years or so. It wasn't really at the front of my mind. It's not something I discuss with people who are —how should I say this?—just passing through."

Big silence. Without looking at Logan, Remy reached over and poured him a full glass of Southern Comfort.

"And?" Logan said.

Remy poured himself a glass. "And there's not much to say about that."

"Come on," Logan said.

Remy sat back in his chair. Took a sip. Thought about what he should say. "Xavier's a good man, if that's what you're concerned about. They're all good people. You shouldn't have doubts about that."

"But?"

He shook his head a little. "The life wasn't for me. They wanted more than I could offer."

He got up to turn on the air conditioner. While fiddling with the thermostat, he glanced over his shoulder at Logan. "Jean Grey's a mighty nice woman, though. Smart. Classy. I regret losing touch with her."

Logan sat up. There—that was the signal. He knew now. Remy had been trying to get a read on Logan all evening. Mentioning Jean's name was like raising the stakes; it let him see what kind of hand Logan was trying to hold on to.

"Oh?" Logan said.

Dude was trying to suppress any visible signs of interest.

"Can't say the same for the cat she runs with." He dropped his hand and shrugged. Came back to the table. "Well, that's unfair. He's okay. Different strokes, I guess."

"That's his bike out there," Logan said, gesturing to the window.

"He let you borrow it?"

"No." He took a sip from his glass. "You ever heard of a place called Alkali Lake? It's where the professor sent me. To find some answers."

Remy knew that Logan was obsessed with uncovering his past. Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to help him much throughout the years. He had only a collection of names and places that seemed to mean little to Logan—Stryker, Creed, Wraith, Three Mile Island, Alberta. No real explanation for why Logan had sought him out. No explanation for the dark-haired woman on the ground, the one Logan said he sometimes dreamt about. And Remy had never heard of Alkali Lake. "Sorry," he said. "I can't give you anything on that."

He hadn't told Logan about the extent of Stryker's experimentation. On Remy. On other mutants. Whatever had happened to Logan, the guy had no memory of it. And some memories were better left buried. Remy knew.

Logan said he'd head back to New York. He had a motorcycle to return.

And here they were, weeks later, the country between them, and Logan was calling him to tell him that Jean Grey had died. In the alcove near the restaurant's bathroom, Remy leaned his face against the dark wood-paneled wall and said nothing. Then he said, "How?"

Logan told him that she had drowned.

He pressed the cell phone against his ear.

Then Logan said: "William Stryker."

Remy remembered to breathe.

"Stryker's the reason Jean is dead." Logan explained that Stryker had broken into the mansion and stolen some children. And some Cerebro equipment. They'd gone to Alkali Lake. Shit had gone down. A dam had burst. Jean had died, saving them. Stryker was also dead.

Remy closed his cell phone. He stumbled back into the restaurant's main dining room and reached for his wallet. Settled up. Said goodbye to his people. He didn't care that they were staring at him, waiting for some explanation, making quiet judgments. Mutants, they probably thought. What can you really expect.

###

"You just so desperately wanted to pass," Cyclops said to him.

This was after he had booked a flight to LaGuardia and rented a car. This was after everything else—the memorial service, the chatting, the quiet talking. When he arrived at Xavier's mansion that day, he had decided not to hit the intercom. He parked his car, grabbed a stick from a nearby glade of trees, and catapulted himself over the gate.

Turned out he wasn't the only one who thought to drop by. Other folks had been in and out of the mansion all day—alumni of the school, old friends, former X-Men, even some ordinary humans who had known Jean from her residency days. He saw them when he opened the front door. They were all milling around in the front room. Dressed okay. He just wanted to slip in and out. Give his condolences to the professor and Scott and then head back to the city. Get his mind off of things.

He was bending over to check out a huge, obnoxious floral arrangement in the hallway—from Emma Frost of all people (Emma fuckin' Frost)—when Storm caught a glimpse of him. "Remy," she said, coming forward. "I didn't think you'd make it."

He turned and embraced her. "Logan called me."

"I know," she said, pulling away but gripping his arms. "He said he had your cell."

Implication being: Why hadn't he ever given his cell phone number to her? Or to anyone else for that matter?

They were standing in the hallway. Remy felt a breeze. He turned to see a window covered with a sheet. It had been shattered.

She saw him staring. "We haven't had a chance to replace them all yet. And some of the hallways are still a mess."

"The children?"

"They're fine. So far. They're up in their bedrooms or in the basement. The older ones are in charge today." She nodded. "They like having a job to do. Come in. Come on in."

###

Yankee Protestants made Remy uncomfortable in their grief. If Jean had been from New Orleans he would have thrown a party. Had a big old wake. Tons of food and drinks and laughs. Good old crying. The type of crying that does a body good, the throwing-yourself-on-the-casket type of crying. But these people, with their modest tears and "memorial service"—what were they thinking?

These grubby thoughts did little to get his mind off of the fact that there was no body. It seemed like such a lack. It felt like something was missing, something too important to simply glide over. Storm had told him that the force of the water was too strong—there'd be nothing left to find.

(And later, much later, after the storm, he'd revisit these thoughts. Some people were never found. Others showed up days later, their arms outstretched because they'd been grasping tree branches or the frames of attic windows. Some were found face down in mud. The body could do many things, after it died. Sometimes it was better when there wasn't any body. Sometimes it was better not to know.)

He hung in the back.

He saw some of the kids up front, the older ones—they seemed nice. But he wasn't getting involved.

He'd even chatted with Alison Blaire and some of the others. They seemed genuinely happy to see him. But they were strained, he could tell.

When it was over, he slipped away. He hadn't seen Logan. He wandered back into the mansion, the place he'd once called home, revisiting its old hallways and nooks. He finally found Logan near the back door. He was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the carpet. Scrubbing what looked like a bloodstain. "Gumbo," he said without looking up.

Remy didn't need to ask him why he hadn't been at the service. He didn't need to tell him he looked like shit, either. Logan had on a flannel over a wife beater and a pair of scuffed-up jeans.

"You wanna get a drink when all this is over?" he asked Logan.

Logan stood. "Well. I'd like to, but there's still too much to do around here." He looked down at the bloodstain. "I think we're going to have to get a professional to come in and clean this carpet. I tried the steamer, but it didn't work."

Remy nodded.

He surprised himself by not leaving right away. The others put on their jackets and hurried out into the cold spring evening, taking their goodbyes and sorries with them. Remy found himself leaning against the wall in the hallway, talking with Alison about a special _Breaking Vegas_ episode for which someone had tried to interview him. (He had declined the interview.)

Storm asked him to come back into the professor's study. He wandered in against his better judgment. She handed him a glass of wine and then left to check on the kids.

"Remy," the professor said, turning in his chair. Logan was on the couch. Scott was in a chair. He had spoken to Scott and the professor only once that day, when he'd first entered the main room. He'd hugged them and given his condolences.

Now he slid onto the couch next to Logan.

The professor asked Remy about himself.

He didn't know where to begin.

He ran several casinos throughout the south. He had connections on Native American reservations. The stuff he did wasn't exactly legal, but it wasn't the kind of stuff that put him on high notice with the feds either. (But he knew he was registered. He knew that much.)

He was thankful for his achievements—thankful he didn't have to crack skulls anymore to make a living—but his life wasn't exactly pride-of-the-X-Men material.

So he gave a noncommittal—and very Remy LeBeau—answer. "I keep myself busy."

"We'd like to see you more often," the professor said. "You should keep in touch. Do you have an email address?"

Remy paused for a moment, his leg crossed over his knee. "Yeah, yeah," he said. "Do you have a piece of paper? I'll write it down before I leave."

"I heard you were mentioned on _Breaking Vegas_ ," Scott said, leaning forward, rubbing his palms together. "How was that?"

He tried to keep from smiling. "It was what it was."

"So mysterious, LeBeau." Scott looked up at him. His face was pale. He just didn't look very healthy.

"That's me."

"It all sounds extremely interesting," the professor said. "Statistics, probability. There's a real science to it."

"It's just luck," Remy said. He didn't tell them that they were about to name a strategy after him in Vegas: LeBeauing. Just like wonging.

Logan was sitting back, his arm slung over the back of the sofa. Nursing a beer. "I was never very lucky." He stared straight ahead. Past the professor. Past Scott.

Remy swirled the wine in his glass. "So how are things? Here?" It was a dumb question.

"Well," the professor said, "Hank has the inside word that mutant registration might be tabled for the time being. Good news. I hope we can move on from this unfortunate incident with the government." Then he started going on about political matters and how it was imperative that they keep on top of things. The students, et cetera. One of their alumni was at Harvard studying public policy. Remy focused on his wine. He felt jittery. He wanted to be back in the city already.

Scott had been looking downward. Now he glanced over at Remy. "I'm sorry," he said. "Are we boring you?"

Remy looked up. "'Scuse me?"

"Why are you here?"

"Scott," the professor said, and not even in a tone of warning or surprise. More like exasperation.

Remy leaned forward. "I'm here cause I'm payin' my respects."

"How lovely," Scott said. "How lovely for you."

"Okay," Remy said, more to himself than anyone else. He stood up, leaving his wine glass on the coffee table.

"How lovely for you to just be able to drive by and drop in like this." Scott watched him as he crossed the room to get his coat. "How nice it must be to go back to your life in the casino and think about it all—"

"Okay?" Remy said, glancing back over his shoulder. "I'm leavin'."

"—like it's just some big fucking memory." He stood.

"Scott, please," the professor said.

"Because that's what we are to you, aren't we?" Scott continued. "Just another story to tell. And while the whole goddamn world goes to hell and mutant kids get tagged and detained and shipped off somewhere, you get to figure out if you should hit or stay or fold or raise. Must be a fucking great life, LeBeau."

Everyone else sat back. Logan looked straight ahead.

"It is," he said. "It's great." He turned to Scott and sneered. "Forget it, man. I'm gone."

"Yes, leave. That's what you do best."

Remy inhaled. Poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Then he turned around to face Scott. "I don't know what you want from me, Scott. I told you when we met that it wasn't my gig. But I went along with it anyway. I did everything you ever wanted. And in the end, where did that leave me? You wouldn't have me around anymore."

"That's bullshit."

"Is it? Tell me now, hon, 'cause I'd really like to know."

Scott leaned back on his heels. "Oh, Gambit," he said slowly. "You just so desperately wanted to pass."

Remy felt his heart beating in his fingertips.

"Well how was it? Breaking Vegas? Did you finally pass for what you wanted?" He took a step forward. "That's what it was all about, wasn't it. That's what it was always about. I'm sorry we couldn't give you what you wanted, LeBeau."

He remembered to breathe. When his voice came, it was low. "You have no idea," he said. "I gave up everything for you." Now his voice was shaking. His breath was coming in shallow gasps. "You just didn't know when to say when, did you," he said. He looked back at the professor. "And neither did you. You just had to keep pushing things. And now Jean's dead." He looked back at Scott's face, his mouth slackening, his eyes blank behind that visor. "And whatever sort of sick blame-game you're playing with me doesn't do anything to help the fact that you got her killed because you couldn't leave things alone." He waited a few seconds. "She was your girl, Scott. And you got her killed. That's not my fault. That's on you. It's always been on you." He spun on his heels and headed for the door.

"Fuck you, LeBeau," Scott said.

"No, fuck you," Remy said, his hand on the doorknob.

"Don't ever come back here." Scott was beginning to shout now. "Read the writing on the fucking wall, Remy. Some day you're going to need our help. Some day things are going to get just too goddamn bad. And who will take care of you then?"

Remy pushed the door open to find Storm on the other side. She looked up at him quickly and then away. She was crying.

He was out the door and down the driveway before he realized that Logan was tagging along after him. "Hey, pal," he said. "Remy."

Remy didn't slow down.

"Hey," Logan reached out grabbed his shoulder.

He spun around.

"It's not really him," Logan said. "It's the grief talking." What the fuck. Logan usually wasn't so trite. He must have also been in a lot of pain. Maybe he'd been reading some books about this grief shit. Or maybe these people had rubbed off on him. "Let me give you a ride to wherever you're going."

"I've got a rental," he said. He made his way to the gates, Logan walking next to him. When he got to the gates, he let Logan punch the code. No jumping this time. He turned to him. "I'm heading back to New Orleans," he said. "Come look me up when you get out of here."

Logan touched one of the iron bars. "I think I'm sticking around for a while," he said.

Remy nodded. He didn't look back towards the mansion. He passed by Logan and reached into his pocket for his keys.


	10. Chapter 10

The bees are dying. No one knows why. It could be a disease. It could be the genetically engineered plants. Global warming. Pesticides. It's called colony collapse disorder.

In December Rogue is a frat party playing a drinking game with cards. The losers have to drink. The losers eventually have to take their shirts off. The losers sometimes have to kiss. Rogue loses. She has lost. She has let Angela, her best acquaintance at Plattsburgh, grab her by the hair and press her face against hers and slip her tongue past her teeth. They've done this several times with lots of boys watching, cheering them on.

When the party is nearly finished, Rogue grabs her shirt and puts it on. She leaves the dorm when no one is watching and goes back to her own. She slips into her bed, smelling her own beer breath. She looks at her cell phone as it charges next to the wall, giving off a small glow. She thinks of calling Kitty, or Bobby, or Logan, but doesn't.

###

Maybe Storm is right to think Logan might leave again. He has to give her that. After Jean's death, after they had retrieved the pieces of Cerebro from Alkali Lake, he had indeed gone to Tokyo. But that was business. That was a mission. There was fighting involved, real world-saving shit to do. And he did come back.

He hasn't left them since.

This is the story of what happened to Scott.

The Scott Logan found back at the mansion was not the Scott he remembered from before, from Liberty Island. That Scott was gone. He had taken a leave of absence. Permanently.

The professor referred to Scott as though he were just on vacation. As though he'd be back any time. But Logan and Storm knew better. Storm quietly stepped in and took over Scott's composition class even though it wasn't her thing. One of the older college-bound kids helped the younger ones with their Spanish.

Scott haunted the mansion's more eclectic places. Logan, who almost never slept, would find him in the rec room after hours, sitting in a chair with his legs slung over the armrest, reading a book. Logan knew that Scott had become a drinker overnight—mostly hard shit, gin and whiskey. He didn't have to have a keen sense of smell to figure that out.

One night he found Scott in the chair in the rec room, one light on over his shoulder. He walked in and sat on the sofa. Scott didn't look up.

Logan bent forward and grabbed a pillow from the couch and held it in his hands. "Hey," he said. There were several things he wanted to say at this moment. He wanted to bring up the topic of Jean. He wanted to tell Scott to pull it together—his absence wasn't doing the team or the kids any good.

Logan would have liked to say all of this in one fell swoop. He didn't like to equivocate. He didn't like people who failed to confront. At this point, he was out of patience with everyone—with the professor and with Storm—for letting Scott malinger like this. The guy was in pain, no doubt about that, but pretending he'd get better on his own wasn't helping anything.

But Logan didn't say what he wanted to. Instead he just said: "Want to hit the danger room?"

And Scott said, "No."

They'd done the danger room thing once since Logan had gotten back from Tokyo. Logan had bested Scott in hand-to-hand combat, but Scott had those laser beams. He'd cornered Logan in one simulation, pinning him against a wall. And then, just as Logan was bracing himself for a good throttling, Scott gave up. Seemed to forget what he came for. He walked out of the simulation and threw a towel over his shoulder. Then he went to bed.

Scott's eyes remained fixed to the words of his book. He said, "Why are you still here?"

Logan shrugged and sighed and tossed the pillow onto the couch. "I'll leave." He got up.

"No," Scott said, closing his book and looking over at Logan. "Why are you still _here_?"

Logan put his hands on his hips. "I don't know. Why are you _not_?"

Scott smirked.

Logan thought for a moment. Then he just decided to go for it. "Did your wife ever tell you what an asshole you are?"

See, he figured he'd lure Scott into a fight. Maybe that would be the best way of getting through all this—a real non-danger room verbal, then physical, altercation. No powers allowed. Just two guys with fists. Wake up the kids, wake up everyone. Gather round for a lesson, children, here's your first homework assignment in pain, misery and bloodletting. Here's what happens when two guys who once loved the same woman work through their shit.

The smirk dropped from Scott's face, but instead of looking pissed he just looked thoughtful. "All the time," he said, barely audible.

Logan then asked if Scott wanted to go out for a drink, and Scott said yes.

At the bar, Scott mostly fiddled with his coaster, eyes cast downward. He downed five shots in the first half hour. Logan matched him.

They said nothing to one another. Then Scott finally said, "The kids seem to like you."

"Yeah," Logan said.

"Don't get used to it. You're a novelty. You'll wear off. Trust me. It happens." He looked up and grinned. "It's nothing personal."

Logan leaned his head against his hand and played with two quarters on the bar in front of him. "It probably has more to do with the fact that I don't give them grades. I'm not their teacher."

"Storm told me she wanted to see you teach conversational Japanese." Scott slumped in his stool, arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Yeah, well." Logan pushed his glass forward for a refill. "That's not happening."

"Oh?"

"I know my limitations. Teaching a bunch of high schoolers how to ask for decent sushi is not on my agenda of things to do before I die."

Scott gave his usual smirk. Then he seemed to get all serious. "So, do you ever think about that? Whether or not you _can_ die?"

Logan downed another shot. He stared into the mirror behind the bar. "Every day."

On the ride back to the mansion, Scott stared out the window while Logan drove. It seemed as though he was looking for something. "You know," he said, "she wasn't my wife."

Logan just rolled down the window so he could smoke. Scott said nothing even though the car was his.

The next morning, Scott surprised everyone. He showed up at breakfast, clean shaven and dressed properly. (Dressed, Logan thought, like Tucker Carlson. It was a good sign.) He marched off to resume teaching his composition class. When Storm saw him ready to go, her face broke into a huge smile, her eyes wet with tears. Then, when Scott was out of earshot, she ran up to Logan and embraced him. "Whatever you did," she whispered, "thank you." (Logan wondered if her reaction could be attributed more to the fact that she was overworked than to any kind of substantial relief about Scott's wellbeing.)

And Scott taught.

That week, Logan often found reasons to linger in the hallway outside of Scott's classroom during school hours. He'd wheel a bunch of new computers into the lab, and then he'd just decide to take the long route back down to the garage. Or he'd be inspecting the molding on the wall outside of Scott's classroom. The kid was a proficient, if uninspired, teacher, though Logan suspected that wasn't a fair assessment; Scott was not yet a hundred percent back. Still, the students seemed to listen to him. He didn't have any discipline problems. Logan was satisfied with the way things were going.

One morning, hungry after supervising an early gym class, Logan went into the kitchen to grab a snack. And just as he sat down, Kitty Pryde phased through the wall and into the kitchen. He dropped his sandwich. He hadn't yet gotten used to that whole thing.

"Mr. Logan?" she said. Her voice came out a tight warble. 

He sprang from his seat. Full emergency mode. Kitty was the first of the string of crying kids he'd encounter at Xavier's, and he didn't yet understand the whole "emotional adolescents" thing. He assumed someone was dying. "What?" he said. "What happened?" He rushed over to where she stood.

"It's Mr. Summers," she said. Her breathing hastened. "He—" She inhaled and steadied herself. "He and Bobby got into a fight, and he just started shouting at the whole class, and then he got really upset and  . . ."

Logan was already out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He sprinted for Scott's classroom.

He found it mercifully empty of students. They'd had the good sense to leave, slipping off to their rooms or to the computer lab.

Scott was slumped over on the desk at the front of the room, his head pressed against the wood. Logan went into the room. "Hey," he said. "Scott." He crouched down so that he was level with Scott's face. "Hey, come on. Let's go upstairs. We can talk there."

"Fuck you, Logan," Scott whispered.

"Come on. Let's go. The kids."

A tear slipped from behind Scott's visor.

"It was just too soon, pal," Logan said, touching Scott's shoulder. "Too soon for all this."

"Logan?" The professor's voice. Logan turned to see him rolling into the room. "Logan, thank you for your assistance. I'll take over from here." (Logan later wondered why Kitty hadn't just run for the professor. Perhaps she didn't want to get Scott in trouble. Or perhaps, as Storm would later surmise, Logan was just a magnet for kids in distress.)

Logan turned, but Scott sat up and grabbed his wrist. He pulled Logan down again so that he was eye level and whispered into his ear: "It's her. I hear her." He smiled and then let go. "Don't let him tell you I'm crazy," he said.

Logan stood up again. He backed away and then turned around. He stepped past the professor and into the hallway.

He saw Kitty out of the corner of his eye. She was standing ten feet away, arms crossed. She was still crying. Then she walked towards the doors to go outside.

That's all.

###

It was almost time for the annual fall play. This was something Scott used to supervise each year. This year Storm and the professor had planned to do without it, but some of the students banded together and said they really, really wanted a play. They'd pick an easy one: _Our Town_. They'd memorize all the lines and teach it to themselves. Storm, already overworked and stressed out, reluctantly agreed to direct. Logan sat down and read the play one night when he couldn't sleep. He thought it was a shitty piece of literature. He knew nothing about this drama crap, but he agreed to help the kids build the minimalist set.

Then Kurt returned to town and offered to help, just in time. (Storm was about to break. It had rained for eight days straight.) The incredible Nightcrawler, as it turned out, didn't just have circus experience. He'd also been part of some avant-garde theater troop back in the early '90s. Logan felt these were dubious qualifications, but he was happy to step back and let Kurt run things.

They held try-outs. Now Logan found himself getting sort of emotionally involved. He watched as each kid came up to read their lines. Some had their lines memorized. It was getting competitive. It was like sports. It was like a tournament. He was pulling for Rogue. He watched as she read a variety of different parts—Emily, Mrs. Gibbs, the Stage Manager. She read opposite Kitty. Then she read opposite Peter. He wanted her to get the part of Emily, the part he knew she really wanted. Seeing her triumph over it all—well, it would be like goddamn _Rocky_. But the professor suggested Kitty Pryde. She was the safe choice for obvious reasons. Logan put aside his disappointment and focused on procuring wood and paint and chairs for the set.

(Thing was, Rogue wasn't good in the danger room. She just wasn't. Logan hated to admit this but it was true. He'd tried working with her after hours, watching as she seemed to grow more and more upset with her lack of abilities. Her reflexes were slow and the only thing she could do was borrow other people's powers, which left them in a state of temporary disarray. She'd be a good weapon to launch against an enemy—but only if she could get close enough to touch one. She seemed to be losing faith in herself. Logan had hoped that the play would get her mind off of things, off of the fact that Kitty seemed to outshine her in all ways. No such luck.)

Rogue got the part of the Stage Manager. Not that Logan was paying attention at that point. He woke up each morning exhausted. He felt himself running out of patience, out of stamina. The professor was letting Scott slide. He was letting him slip away. Scott spent days in his room and no one saw him anymore. He didn't come down for meals. He didn't show for his danger room sessions. Logan was beginning to resent this—he resented having to cover Scott's gym classes and danger room practices. It wasn't what he signed up for. Subbing was one thing, but having to take over completely was something he wasn't prepared for.

He knew it was important that he stick around. He was part of the team now, and the professor was convinced that the next battle might happen any day. They had to train the kids. Still, he thought he might take a road trip. Go to New Orleans and see Remy LeBeau. Try to wring some more information out of that guy.

Logan had asked Storm only once about Scott and Remy.

"Oh," she said, "they go back." She was in the kitchen late at night making a pot of coffee, about to embark on what she called a grading marathon. But she seemed to welcome his company, seemed relieved that someone might want to talk about anything other than Artie's antics or Jones's history average, or what kind of costumes they planned to make for the play. She was even tired of talking about the upcoming presidential election, her fragile hope that they might get a mutant-friendly president wearing thin.

"Those three were tight," she told Logan, taking a second mug out of the cupboard for him. "Jean, Scott, and Remy. Good friends. Especially Remy and Jean. I think that Remy was even a little enamored of Jean. They were very, very close."

Logan watched as Storm poured the coffee. "Oh. _Oh_."

"Oh no, it wasn't—it wasn't like that," she said, placing a mug in front of him. "Well, I think Remy probably wanted it to be, but a hypnotist's powers don't really work on a telepath. And weirdly, Remy seemed to actually respect Scott and Jean's relationship."

Logan felt himself tense up. He took the mug in his hands. He wondered if Jean had told Storm that he had come on to her so strongly the night before Alkali Lake. Probably not. She probably hadn't had the chance. "So why the big fight?" he asked.

Storm shrugged. "Scott felt that Remy never took anything seriously. Remy didn't like the way Scott ran the team. Eventually they just didn't see eye to eye anymore. So Remy left us in a real lurch, right before a big mission." She paused, running her fingers around the top of her mug. "Scott took it personally. He takes everything so personally. He felt that Remy had betrayed us." Now she looked up. "So tell me how you know Remy LeBeau. Why do you have his cell phone number?"

###

Logan was exhausted. He was overworked and resenting the hell out of everything. One evening he was in the "Little Theater"—the annex on the edge of campus that a famous alum had helped convert into a theater—trying to get the set in proper order. Rehearsal was over for the evening and everyone else was off at dinner except for a few straggling kids who were sanding a table. He slipped behind the curtains to go outside to have a cigar. He found Bobby sitting on the steps that led up to the door.

Bobby was sitting there, palms pressed together between his knees, head down. He looked up when he saw Logan.

"Hey kid," Logan said. He stopped in front of Bobby.

"Hey Mr. Logan," Bobby said quietly.

Logan reached into his pocket to touch his cigar. He guessed it would have to wait. "Why aren't you in the play?"

Bobby looked down. "I don't like to act."

"Yeah," Logan said. Good reason.

"That's why I'm here, though," Bobby said. "I was wondering if . . . if I could . . . help you with the sets . . . if it's not too late . . ." He was crying, his breath coming quickly between phrases.

Logan looked down at him. "Of course."

Bobby seemed embarrassed. He wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. "Thanks," he said, sniffling.

Logan wanted to step over him and go outside and forget that he'd seen this display of emotion. But instead he just exhaled and looked down at the kid. "You want to tell me what this is about?"

Bobby covered his eyes.

Logan looked away and rolled his eyes. Damn, he felt drained. He hadn't signed up for this. He reached down and grabbed Bobby by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Bobby held onto him. He buried his face in Logan's shirt. He said nothing. Minutes later, he pulled away. "Dr. Grey," he said, swallowing.

Logan kept his hand on Bobby's right shoulder.

"Do you think I could have . . . could I have done something?"

"No, no," Logan said, shaking his head. "You couldn't have done anything. None of us could have done anything. And even if we could have, she wouldn't let us."

Bobby now stood back and wrapped his arms around himself. "I can freeze things. I could have maybe—"

"No," Logan said, squeezing Bobby's shoulder. "Don't."

Bobby collected himself. He looked unconvinced, but he seemed to remember where he was and who Logan was. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to apologize for."

"So I can still help you? Like, tomorrow?"

"Three o'clock sharp," Logan said.

Bobby said goodbye and turned around and left. Logan remained next to the steps. He was tired. He was also sad. For a minute he let himself feel very sad before climbing the steps and going out into the night.

###

The day of opening night, Logan went to Kinko's to have the programs run off. The students had decided to do two shows. The first would be for the school, and the second would be for parents and alumni who lived close enough to drop by. Logan was going to have to sit through the play twice.

Logan read through the program. Jones was in charge of the lighting. Peter, in addition to playing George, was the main stagehand. Jubilee was doing costumes. He flipped the program over. On the back was a small inscription: _This performance of_ Our Town _is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Jean Grey_. And then a quote from the play: "There's something way deep down that's eternal about every human being." He left Kinko's with the programs and then went to Walmart to buy cookies for the reception.

That night he slipped backstage as the kids were getting ready. He wanted to wish Rogue good luck.

"You're supposed to say 'break a leg,'" she told him, laughing.

"I am?"

"Oh, Logan." She turned back to the mirror. The other kids were applying each other's make-up, but Rogue was doing her own.

"You have a lot of lines," he said. "Are you going to remember all those lines?"

She turned back to him and gave him an amused and befuddled look. "I thought you were supposed to try to make me feel more confident, not more nervous."

"Sorry," he said. "You look great."

She laughed again, this time to herself. "Thank you."

Logan stood offstage during the play behind the curtains even though he knew the kids didn't need him there. They had it all under control. Kurt was stationed backstage to help the kids with their scene changes. Bobby was serving as the prompt. He got Logan a chair but Logan decided to stand, arms crossed in front of his chest. Bobby sat.

The play began. It was good. They were good. They were so good. He was surprised; he had overheard the kids rehearse dozens of times, but he hadn't really paid attention. Kurt had done well with them. Kitty was solid as Emily, but Rogue—Rogue was inspired as the Stage Manager. She was dazzling. She moved so unselfconsciously across the stage. Her gloves and her accent—they worked perfectly. At the beginning of Act III, when she was doing her monologue, he looked down and smiled to himself. Laughed silently. She was so good. He hadn't known.

But he had laughed to take himself away from the fact that the play was—the play was getting to him. Emily had died, and she was trying to choose which day to live over again. "But I won't live over a sad day," Kitty spoke.

Logan leaned back against the wall. He closed his eyes. He brought his hand to his face and then ran his index finger along his right eyebrow. He opened his eyes and looked past the stage and into the audience. But the lights were too bright. He couldn't see anyone. He still looked. He wanted to fix himself on someone. He wanted to see a face.

He breathed slowly. Now his vision was blurring. The kids. This was their way of working through it. He hadn't known. He hadn't understood. Bless. 

He held himself to keep from breaking.

He had never cried, not since that first day. Hadn't gone to the memorial service. Had just gone back to Alkali Lake and then to Tokyo to finish out the mission. You could get addicted to grief, he knew, just like you could get addicted to drugs or alcohol or sex. It could consume you. Rot you away inside like a big cavity. It was better not to touch it. Scott—Scott had let himself drown in it. Scott. He wanted to search the audience for Scott. He wanted to think that Scott was there, that he was seeing this. That he could know. The kids—the kids were doing this for him. For all of them.

He knew Scott wasn't there. Knew he hadn't come. This did little to distract him from the fact that his eyes were wet. His face was hot. He held his breath. He tried to swallow. Kitty was saying something, an exchange with one of the other actors. When he drew in his breath, he could feel himself shudder a little. Rogue was giving her final monologue. "There are the stars," she said, "doing their old, crisscross journeys in the sky. Scholars haven't settled the matter yet, but they seem to think there are no living beings up there. Just chalk . . . or fire." Logan looked down and tried to will himself to keep his emotions in check. Rogue was bidding everyone good night. The lights dimmed. Then, a sharp report of applause. He looked up. People were standing in the audience. Now the kids were backstage, smiling, laughing, getting ready to take their bow.

Logan quietly cleared his throat. He turned to slip away, to go out the back until he was okay again. Then he felt someone grab his hand. Bobby. "Mr. Logan," Bobby said. "They'll want you to take a bow."

No. He hadn't done anything.

"Go on," Bobby said, "go line up in the back with everyone else." The he looked at Logan. Saw him. And squeezed his hand.


	11. Chapter 11

At a quarter till five, Remy opened one of the double doors at the back of the lecture hall and slipped into the room. Only one of the students turned around. She smiled when she saw him. He tipped his hat and then slid into a seat in the back row. Dan was lecturing to a half-empty class. Friday afternoon was nobody's first choice, but Dan was earning his professorial stripes.

He was lecturing about Proust. He seemed to see Remy's silhouette and smiled briefly before returning to his notes. Remy was glad. He was glad he could make someone happy. He was having the worst fucking day of his post-Three Mile Island existence, and, as he soon found out, it was only going to get worse.

The class was wrapping up. Dan was telling them that their half-term papers were due the next Monday. They filed out of the room like stunned and tired cattle. Remy made his way down to the podium.

"Hey," Dan said, shoving a stack of books into his briefcase. "I didn't think I'd see you here. Don't you have to be at the club tonight?"

He smiled at Dan. Really smiled at him. The kid—who really wasn't much of a kid anymore but a twenty-nine-year-old assistant professor, tenure track—looked wrecked. Bombed out. He was too thin and his hair was turning into a total 'fro. Remy had once joked that he was going to turn into one of those nearsighted old proffies with elbow patches and pigeon-chested physiques. Dan hadn't thought that was funny. But he'd been working too hard. He was trying to get tenure, and it was a bitch. Remy had never before seen him so irritable and exhausted, not even when he was writing his dissertation.

He'd been sick four times that winter. He was working on turning his dissertation into a book, but the process was slow. Even though he had four articles forthcoming in peer-reviewed journals, the university was pushing him to publish more. And then there were the classes and the committees. Most nights Remy didn't even see Dan. He'd hear him in the study, typing away on the new computer they'd just bought.

He said, "I called Andre and told him I wouldn't make it tonight. I want to take you out."

Dan paused in the middle of shoving a folder into his briefcase. "I'd love to. You know I would. But the humanities institute is having that God awful open house at the president's mansion. Jesus Christ." He scratched his forehead and looked up. "You can come to _that_ if you want. The food might be good. And the drinks are free."

"That's quite alright. I'll head over to the club. See if I can't pick up a little swag." He looked down to hide his disappointment. He wished Dan wouldn't work so hard. He was getting all Yankee. Dan assured him that it wouldn't last forever—once he got tenure there'd be free summers off and trips to Spain and winter vacations in the Bahamas. Right.

He looked back up to Dan. "I have to tell you something." He turned around to scan the near-empty lecture hall. "Not here, though. Too much echo."

Dan brought Remy into his office, a windowless, carpetless, un-airconditioned junior faculty shithole, and sat him down on the desk. "What is it?"

Remy took out a cigarette. Dan touched his hand. "You can't. New non-smoking building policy."

He stared at his cigarette and then slipped it back into his shirt pocket. "Tante Mattie came to see me today."

Dan grabbed his wrist. "What?"

Remy nodded sadly. "Came right up to the window and started fuckin' calling for me like I was a kid again. I tried just laying low, hoping she'd go the fuck away." He rolled his eyes. "I figured she was on the dole and wanted money. And then I was afraid that someone would call the cops. The last thing I need."

"So you let her in?"

He sighed.

"My God," Dan said. "What the fuck does she want? After all these years, to just show up like that at a person's house? It's un-goddamn-seemly."

Remy felt his shoulders slump. "My father is dying. She came to tell me my father is dying. Stage four lung cancer." He paused. "No one expected that, I guess. No one thought the motherfucker would ever die." He brushed his hair back with his hand. "Ain't that a bitch."

Dan placed a hand on Remy's back. Remy could tell Dan didn't know how to react. He hated Jean-Luc, hated him unequivocally. And because Dan was the product of loving parents, he didn't understand how complex dysfunctional relationships could be, how your parents remained your parents even when they hurt you and disowned you and did terrible things to you. "Not a letter," he said. "Not a phone call. All these years. And now they have the audacity."

"That's not all," Remy said. "Jean-Luc wants to see me. He wants to give me his blessing and bring me back into the fold. He wants to leave me the guild."

The guilds had been making a slow comeback, finding their footing again. The Reagan-sponsored war on drugs was slowly chipping away at the drug trade, and the guilds were worming their way back in, selling protection and services to some of the organized crime syndicates who wanted to set up shop and disliked the free-for-all the drug business had created. And as much as Remy hated his father's people, he had to admit that New Orleans had been better when the guilds had run things. Safer. Now the inner city had been damn near destroyed by drugs. It was practically uninhabitable.

"What are you going to do?" Dan asked.

Remy narrowed his eyes. "Well of course I would never, Dan. Jesus. I'm stupid, not suicidal. I ain't goin' toe-to-toe with cartel town."

"You're not stupid," Dan said. "You're probably the smartest person I know. But I didn't mean that. I was asking if you were going to see Jean-Luc."

Remy looked down and slowly shook his head. "I don't know. I just don't know."

"It's up to you," Dan said. He waited several moments. He seemed to be carefully weighing his thoughts. "It's your life, and I know he's your dad. But I don't want to see you get hurt. I mean, goddammit, the guy drafted you into a life of juvenile delinquency, forced you to get married, and then stood by while you got kicked out of the city when things went sideways. I'm sorry, but the fact that he's dying of cancer doesn't exactly tug at my heartstrings. _¿Entiendes?_ "

Remy propped his feet up on a chair and laid his hands on his knees. " _Je comprends_."

Dan paced for a minute and scratched the back of his head. "Come on, let's go home. I'll take you home. We'll stay in. Order dinner. Pizza or gumbo, take your pick."

"What about your open house?"

"Fuck the open house."

Remy slid from the desk. "No, no. You go." Dan looked unconvinced. "You don't want to piss off the university president by not showin' at his thing. Tenure."

Dan still looked unconvinced.

"I kinda need to be alone," he said. "I need to think through some shit."

Dan nodded. He hugged him and sent him on his way.

###

Remy didn't fear anybody, but he still avoided certain neighborhoods and kept a low profile. The 1980s had been good to him. Corporate slush and easy money had translated into gamblers—lots of gamblers. Lots of high-stakes games. Trickle-down economics meant a big spill-over, right into Remy's pockets. It was a fucking gilded age. He helped run a small casino, but his real money was in stocks. That's right, he'd made a killing. A few very wise investments. Macintosh, Sony, Eli Lilly. And he didn't even have to crack skulls for his piece of the pie. Jean-Luc the extortionist had never done this well.

But as he walked the streets of the Quarter that night he felt awful. Jittery. Wished he had something to take his mind off things. He'd been drug free since he'd kicked in Cincinnati eight years before, but the cravings never really went away. He knew he'd always be an addict, and that he'd always transfer his addictions to other outlets: sex, love. Money.

He hadn't told Dan about what else Tante Mattie had said. Bad time's a-comin', she'd said. Be on your guard. And then she looked almost happy about it. Smug. You'd think the woman who had practically raised him would be upset for him that bad times were a-comin'. He tried to shake it off, forget that mystifying, horrible look on the old woman's face. Jesus God, she looked like a gargoyle. He didn't put much stock in the magic anymore (he knew how real magic worked), but Tante had still managed to rattle him.

Remy made his way past the tourists and back towards his apartment. He had to take the dog for a walk.

He knew something was wrong the second he stepped into his apartment. The air felt foul. Familiar. Sick. He knew. Without thinking he reached for the umbrella they kept next to the door, but then he was on the ground. Being choked. "Oh my," came the voice. "You've gotten slow in your old age." And then the hand was gone from his neck. He rolled over, coughing, and reached into his jacket pocket. Before he had a chance to even touch his cards, he found himself pinned against the wall next to the mirror. "Oh, LeBeau. Ain't that just the thing though?" Victor reached over and turned on the light.

Seeing Victor Creed again didn't have the effect that Remy always thought it would. Victor's eyes and face looked the same. His hair was longer. He was growing a beard. Remy felt horrified but complacent. Accepting of his fate. He'd always thought that when Creed came for him they'd have a fight and he'd go down fighting. But now he just prayed to pass out. He just wanted to be dead already. He only hoped that whatever Creed had planned wasn't too grisly. Or that a neighbor would find his body before Dan got home. He didn't want Dan to remember him in whatever state Victor was about to leave him. He made a mental note to scream.

"I'm not going to kill you," Creed said.

"Oh?" Remy gasped.

"No. I just want to talk." He gently lowered Remy from the wall and patted his face. "Truth is, I missed you."

Remy rubbed his shoulder. "Yeah, seems like just yesterday, don't it."

Creed laughed. "You were always the bluffer. The most incorrigible little bastard on the island." Then the smile dropped from his face. "Aren't you going to welcome me inside?"

"Seems like you've already done that," Remy said, but he slipped past Creed and into the living room and stopped behind the sofa. What he really wanted to do was puke. "Do you want a beer?" he asked. He knew, for various reasons he couldn't remember, that Creed was a beer drinker.

Creed chuckled and sat down and put his feet up on the coffee table. "Sure."

In the kitchen, Remy thought about getting the broom. Or a knife. But what was the point? Creed was immune to all of that. He popped the cap off a beer and realized, for the first time, that the dog had not barked or run to greet him. He looked over at the laundry room, the place where the dog slept and ate. The light was off and the door was slightly ajar. He groaned silently. Set a hand down on the counter.

"LeBeau," Creed said. "You running a fucking micro brewery back there? Don't get any cute ideas."

Remy walked back into the room with the bottle of beer. He set it on the coffee table. Creed looked up at him, questioning. "Where's yours?"

"AA," Remy said.

Creed gave him the once-over. "Yeah right." He motioned to the chair. "Sit down. I'm not going to hurt you. If I was here to kill you, you'd have been dead five minutes ago."

He had a point. Remy took a seat adjacent to the sofa.

Creed's face cracked into another smile. He shook his head. He seemed genuinely amused. "I knew you wouldn't be the same scared shitless little glam-rock dandy bitch I found in lower Manhattan, but I didn't think you'd be so . . ." He looked around at the furniture, at the stereo, at the framed pictures of friends and ski vacations (mostly Dan's). "What's the word I'm looking for? Middleclass." He took a swig of his beer. "Boy. You got everybody fooled, huh. Must be fun to be you."

"What do you want?" Remy said. He wondered if Creed was looking for money. That would be wonderful—just money. He'd have no trouble paying Creed off for the rest of his miserable life. He'd double his games. Double his stocks. Whatever it took. But he knew it wasn't money.

"It's not about what I want," Creed said. "Well, it is, but that's secondary. I'm actually here to give you something. A heads up." He set his beer down on the coaster. "I've got one word for you, baby." He sat up and reached over and tapped Remy's knee. "Magneto."

Remy didn't flinch. "What's that?"

"Don't play stupid. You might be a fucking bourgeois baby-boom yuppie trying to put a nice spin on your white trash roots, but you've got your ear to the ground like every other goddamn circus freak in the free world. You know what they're saying out there. The war's coming. And you know Magneto's the one who's gonna bring it."

He tried not to roll his eyes. He had indeed heard all of this—and he had of course heard of Magneto. But he didn't care. As long as he stayed alive—as long as he was allowed to hang around in New Orleans and eat and sleep and play cards and love Dan—he didn't care what other mutants said or did. He wondered if Creed was simply here to recruit him for the cause. If so, he'd give him a nice short answer.

"Thing is," Creed continued, "Magneto's heard of you, too." He looked up at Remy's face and laughed. "Oh, sweetheart. Now I've got your attention."

Remy said, "What are you talking about?"

Creed folded his hands in front of him, fidgeting away with those big black nails. "Magneto doesn't like it when good innocent mutants fall victim to forces beyond their control. He also doesn't like it when other mutants make that possible." He drew closer to Remy, sliding over on the couch. "In fact, what he hates most of all are mutants who sell out other mutants. Even if it's for their own survival." Now he clasped his hands together as if he were excited. "A lot of good people got killed in New York. Man, Stryker never would have found them if you hadn't pointed him in the right direction."

Now Remy felt sick. He opened his mouth to breathe. Then closed it. His blood was beating in his ears. He wanted Creed out of his apartment.

"Magneto wants an accounting of you."

Remy took several breaths and then remembered himself. He glanced over at Creed. "What about you, Victor? Like New York happened all by itself? Correct me if I'm wrong, but you were Stryker's favorite errand boy." He steeled himself. "You know what we used to call you? Stryker's filthy little pet."

That was the wrong thing to say. Creed grunted and reached over with one arm, closing his hand around Remy's neck. Remy once again hoped for a quick death. When he opened his eyes, he found Creed's face inches from his. Then Creed let him go.

"I've paid my debt in full," he said. "Good old fashioned service to the Magneto cause. He knows. He knows that people like Stryker manipulate us to get what they want. And because I have certain talents, and because I'm on Magneto's side, he knows I'm too valuable to really fuck with." He grinned. "Can't say the same for you."

Remy looked at Victor. "What do you want with me?"

Creed pressed his palms together. "I was sent here to bring you to Magneto. He wants a trial, a sentencing, the whole deal. Crimes against mutants. The man wants _justice_ , old style. But I could convince him not to bother you. He'd listen to me. I could cut some kind of deal for you."

He'd rounded them up for Stryker, and now he was doing the same for Magneto. Remy was astounded by his gall, by his panache. And the fact that he got away with these things—when Remy wouldn't—was just too much to process. "But?" he said.

"But I need something in return." He looked down and took another sip of his beer. "Wolverine." He looked up at Remy and leveled his finger at him. "And don't play stupid this time."

Remy shook his head. "I don't know where he is."

Creed shook his head and smiled. "Then I guess Magneto gets to have a real showdown with you. Where's your phone? I'll call him right now. He'll be down here tomorrow morning. I'll sure score some points with him. You're our number one offender."

Remy was silent. Then he said, "Why don't you know, Creed? Why don't _you_ tell _me_ where Logan is?"

Creed grunted again, looked pissed. Then he looked back at his beer. "I don't know. I can't get a read on him."

Remy shrugged. "He moves around a lot. I haven't seen him in three years." Not quite a lie. He waited a moment. "What do you want with him, anyway? You know he doesn't remember you? Doesn't remember a goddamn thing."

"I don't buy that whole act," Creed said, more to himself than to Remy. "Anyway," he said, looking back towards Remy, "you might not know where he is this moment. But I know you can get in touch with him. I know you can bring him to town." Creed smiled again. "I don't want to hurt him. I just want to talk. Just like with you. Just like we're talking now."

He rose from the sofa. "How about I give you forty-eight hours to think about it and get back to me? I'll find something to do in New Orleans for two days, right? Oh, I almost forgot." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the dog's collar and dropped it on the coffee table. It hit with a small clank. There was a bloodstain on the leather. "Speaking of pets, yours met with a slight accident. I'd hate to see something similar happen to the other one." He laughed. "Seriously, LeBeau. A dog? You gotta be shitting me." He let himself out of the apartment.

When he was gone, Remy sprinted into the laundry room and flicked on the light. Esteban. Yeah, he was dead. His throat had been ripped open. "Oh," he groaned as he knelt down next to the dog, his wide-open shocked dog eyes, his pretty brown fur streaked with blood. He felt like crying, but instead he got some towels, a blanket, some bleach, and some plastic garbage bags. He'd have to work quickly.

A few hours later, he returned to the apartment through the back door. He hung his keys on the hook under the kitchen light.

"Remy?" Dan called from the living room.

Remy wandered in to find Dan lying on the sofa. He looked up. The TV was on but the volume was low. "Where were you?" Dan said. "And where's Esteban?"

Remy leaned against the molding and took a deep breath. He had buried Esteban and his bloody collar down near the docks. The dog had loved it there. Remy said, "Something happened to him."

Dan sat up.

"I took him for a walk in the park. He got into something—I don't know what. He started having some kind of seizure. By the time I got him to the vet, he was dead."

"Remy. My God."

"It's my fault."

Dan stood up from the sofa. "Why would it be your fault?"

Remy crossed his arms and brought his fist to his lips. "It was too late to go to the park." He turned and went into the kitchen and leaned over onto the table. Spread his hands out and looked down at the pattern in the wood He could hear Dan walk into the kitchen behind him. And stand there.

"I think you've had about the worst day ever, Desperado."

Remy inhaled sharply through his nose. He felt Dan's hand on his upper back. He laughed noiselessly, grimly. To himself. He'd been so stupid. He'd thought he'd actually gotten away with everything. He shook his head.

"He was an older dog," Dan said, his voice heavy and sad. "Maybe it was just his time." Dan touched the back of his head.

Remy stood up and spun around. "Do you wanna move? I'm thinkin' we might move."

Dan stepped back and shook his head quickly in surprise and amazement. "Where the hell did that come from? And the college, my job—"

"They don't treat you right there anyhow," Remy said. "Four published articles and they've still got a hand up your ass."

"It would be the same anywhere."

Remy turned around. "Never mind. I'm just—I don't know what I'm talking about."

"Is this about Jean-Luc? The guilds? Listen, if this is about getting a fresh start away from all that shit, then maybe it's best we pull up stakes. I'll check the MLA job list. See what's out there. As long as it's someplace warm, I don't care."

Remy took a few deep breaths. "Forget I said anything," he said, pulling away. He walked past Dan to go into the bathroom. He needed to peel his clothes off and take a shower. He needed to think.

Dan was right. It would be the same anywhere.


	12. Chapter 12

Did you think that Remy had stopped looking for Logan all those years ago in Bakersfield? Of course he hadn't. He'd never stopped looking for Logan. He'd given Logan's description to every fucking contact he'd ever made. He had eyes and ears in every major metropolitan area in the country. He'd even promised a right handsome reward.

But it was pure chance that brought Remy back in touch with Logan. In 1984, Dan had wanted to go to Los Angeles to check out the burgeoning heavy metal scene. So they'd gone. (To be honest, it became another sexcapade, a rehash of their cross-country trip in '79. They'd been overdue for it. They'd needed to blow off steam.)

And then, one night, miracle of miracles. They were drunk, pleasantly drunk, and they stumbled across him in a bar in Korea Town. Unthinking and giddy, Remy had run straight for Logan, calling his name. (Wrong move. You never approach a scared animal head on. You always come at him slow and from the side.)

Dude. Dude had that wild-eyed look. Next thing Remy knew, he found himself pinned against a dartboard, Logan's claws at his throat. (He always laughed when he remembered that moment.) "Who the fuck are you?" Logan said.

"Remy LeBeau," he gasped. "Remember? The island? The plane? Goddamn, where you been? I been lookin' for you for five years."

Logan turned around. And then Remy looked over Logan's shoulder. Most of the patrons had fled the bar. The bartender had a bat. And on the ground was Dan. He'd fainted.

###

They sorted through the details later. Logan hadn't trusted Remy enough to follow him back to his hotel, but he met them the next morning at a dive downtown. Remy and Dan were still young enough to want to sober up on pancakes with whipped cream. Logan looked on with a certain disgust and longing. "How do I know you?" he asked.

Remy was excited to tell the story. He'd practiced it so many times over the years, but only with Dan to regale. He explained about the club in New Orleans. The fight. Wraith. Stryker. Et cetera. He stopped when describing the bullet hole in Logan's head. "Right there," he said, bringing his hand up to point to Logan's forehead.

Logan pushed his hand away. "What else?"

Remy shrugged. Brought his cup of coffee to his lips. "That's it, buddy. I was gonna ask you what happened. Like why you wanted to kill Victor Creed."

"Victor Creed," Logan whispered.

Remy put his coffee down. "Damn." He narrowed his eyes. "You really have no memory? Nothin'?"

"So we weren't friends," Logan said. "You didn't know me."

"I could get to know you," Remy said. "I think we could have a nice time together."

Dan snickered, looking down at his food.

"Who's he?" Logan asked.

Dan looked up. "Not someone who can hurt you."

"You're welcome to come home with us," Remy said. "We'd love it if you stayed a while."

Logan declined.

Well, that was that. Remy insisted on picking up the check. They stumbled into the bright California morning. "I'm just glad you're okay," Remy said, watching as Logan climbed onto a motorcycle. "I've been thinkin' about you for years. I ain't had a good night's sleep since that day on the island."

Logan turned over the cycle. "Yeah." Then he said something like "me neither" before pulling away from the curb.

So, the end? Hell no. Logan turned up two weeks later in New Orleans. Remy actually heard him pull up outside the apartment and ran to look. He brought him inside, set him down on the sofa, and brought him a glass of iced tea. "You still wear those dog tags," he said.

Logan looked down and brought his tag up to look at it. "What do you know about this?"

"I told you. The man who took me wore the same tags."

Logan continued to stare at the tags. "Took you? Took you where?"

Remy sighed. Logan was exhausting.

Logan visited three more times over the course of a year. Dan got to know him. Dan thought he was fucking great. It was like Logan fell out of the sky for them, someone to watch over and dote on. (They loved taking care of people.) He seemed bizarrely disarmed by southern hospitality. It was like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he thought they were putting him on. They were charmed by him, by how he seemed both artless and defensive.

"You two?" he asked one day, nodding at them.

Remy laughed. "You wanna blow off some steam? You can join us any time you want, cowboy."

"We like cowboys," Dan said.

Logan turned around and rolled his eyes. "That's okay." He always looked at them with that certain mixture of disgust and longing.

Then Logan showed up one day in late December and said he was going to back to Asia. But he was getting a post office box in California. He'd check it when he got back. "Glad to hear you're plannin' on coming back," Remy said.

Logan said he'd see.

"We're always here," Remy said. "You just come back when you're good and ready."

Logan sent three postcards from Japan.

###

Remy prepared to die.

First: he burned anything that might be useful to Creed. The postcards from Logan. The address of Logan's P.O. box in California.

Second: he got his affairs in order. Called his brokers and told them to put Dan on his accounts. He put everything valuable in a safe deposit box down at the bank. Made sure Dan's name was on the list of people who could have access.

Third: wrote a letter to Dan to put in the safe deposit box. Explained everything. Told him about what really happened to the dog. Gave him some details about places he had money hoarded away, access codes to different bank accounts. Then instructed that Dan burn the letter.

Fourth: told Andre at the casino that he'd be taking a leave of absence.

He stayed awake all night on the second day. Watched for Creed's shadow. Watched Dan. Watched the sun come up. He'd already picked a meeting place. Told Creed he would be there.

"Your birthday's next week," Dan said that morning when he was moving around. "I want to make all this up to you. I know this tenure thing's been a shit show. I've been a _pendejo_ to live with."

Remy just squeezed the back of Dan's neck and went for the orange juice.

He'd be thirty-two.

He waited for Dan to leave the apartment. Then he got dressed. Put on a nice pair of boots and pants. His favorite shirt. Left his best hat, though. Took his leather coat. Unloaded his credit cards and driver's license from his wallet and left them in the drawer next to his bed. Left a small note for Dan on his pillow telling him not to wait up. Then left another his shoe in the closet telling him to check the safe deposit box when he got a chance.

That evening, he'd go to meet Creed. He'd stop running. Stop pretending. Offer himself up. It was over. It'd be over soon, one way or another.

He knew how it would begin. First, Creed would demand information on Logan. He'd tell him he didn't have any information on Logan. (True.) Then Creed would take him somewhere. Try to torture it out of him. He'd threaten. He'd get cruel. When Remy wouldn't break (and he knew he wouldn't), he'd either kill him or take him back to Magneto for extra points. Either way, it was best to seal this off. Before it touched Logan or Dan. Make sure it began and ended with him. Make sure it didn't go any further.

He stepped out into the morning, into what he assumed would be his last morning. He took out a cigarette. And started to walk down the street. He felt something—or someone—moving behind him. Someone had come up from the alley. He kept moving.

He heard a voice: "Are you Remy LeBeau?"

He kept walking. He'd given the wrong answer to that question too many times in his life.

And someone else said, "Yeah, that's him."

He didn't bother to glance behind him. He just started running. And when he ran past a guy sweeping the street in front of his shop, he grabbed the broom from the guy's hands. Sprinted around the corner. Then waited.

When they got there—the people chasing him—he was already in motion. Already swinging that thing around. He pounced. They fell backwards onto the ground, reeling. He panted, taking them in. The one was a boy in a—visor? And the other was—a girl. No, scratch that, a _young lady_. He'd just knocked over a lady. Christ on a crapstick. These two were just young kids. They were probably trying to sell him something. He advanced towards them. "Hey," he started to say when the girl sprang to her feet. She made a motion, and the next thing he knew, he was in the air. Then he hit something. Then he was on the ground.

He was on his hands and knees now. He looked up. So they did want a fight. He reached into his pockets, pulled out his cards, and began to charge them. Looked at those kids. Aimed. Brought his hand down. Then, much to his amazement and horror, the boy opened fire. (With his eyes, no less.) Remy's cards were dust. Then Remy felt a hot blast around his midsection, and then he felt nothing.

###

"He's coming around," someone said. A female voice. "I think you hit him too hard. You really knocked him out."

"I had to," someone else said. "He would have killed us. And if it's us or them, I pick us every time."

He opened his eyes to find another pair of eyes staring back at him. The girl. "Mr. LeBeau?" she started to say. "My name is—"

He pushed her away. Harder than he intended to. He started to get up and then felt a fresh peel of pain in his abdomen. He groaned.

"You won't be going anywhere for a while," she said. She sat back down. He took in his surroundings for the first time to realize he was in a bed. In what looked like a hotel room. "I know you're wondering who the fuck I am and where the fuck you are, and all that shit," she said. Which was funny, because that was exactly how he'd phrased it to himself. "You're just going to have to trust us for now."

The girl was next to him on the bed. She had on a pair of jeans and a plain white shirt. The boy stood next to the mirror. He had on a pair of sunglasses. He guessed they were in their early to mid twenties, but no older than that.

The boy came over and started to talk to Remy. He introduced himself. He introduced her. He explained that Remy was in a motel on the edge of town. They'd brought him here, they said. To treat him. (Then why were they trying to kill him?)

"We're not trying to kill you," the girl said. "We're trying to help you."

"You're under no obligation to be here," the boy said. "You can leave any time you want."

He tried to sit up. Couldn't.

The boy started laughing.

"Scott," the girl said. "That's not nice."

Remy felt his breathing grow ragged. He felt as though he could pass out again. "You don't understand," he tried to explain. "I have to be somewhere. It's crucial."

The boy and the girl looked at each other. They exchanged glances. "We know," the girl said. She looked back at him.

The boy said, "You were going to meet Sabretooth tonight."

And she looked at him and said, "You know him as Victor Creed."

And he said to them, "Who the fuck are you?"

They explained something about a mission, about a fight, about an upcoming battle. Some war shit. Again he said, "Who the fuck are you?"

They exchanged glances again. (They seemed to do that a lot.) The boy came over and sat at the end of the bed. "I think the question is, why are you going to see Victor Creed? What does he want from you?"

Remy held his hand up in front of his face and looked away. "I ain't answering that."

"I think you should. I think you should let us help you." He held out a pack of cigarettes. Remy recognized them as his own cigarettes. He pushed them away. "Look, we can help you with Victor Creed, but you have to tell us what he wants."

Remy leaned back against the headboard. "Look, kid. I don't know who you are or what the fuck you want or why you're asking me about Victor Creed. Why I should tell you anything? I just know I got somewhere to be."

"Okay." The boy got up from the bed. He went over to the table next to the window. He picked up a large file the size of a phonebook. He held it. "See this?" he said, weighing it in his left hand. "This is your file."

His file?

"What file, you're wondering? Well Mr. LeBeau—or should I call you Gambit?—this is the file the government has on you. As well as other organizations, some of them anti-mutant, some of them mutant supremacist. First of all, you're a registered mutant. You should know that. But that's the least of it. You're wanted in nine states for securities fraud and racketeering. You've got money in an illegal casino in Arkansas. Then there's that insider trading deal with Honda. The feds have started to take an interest. Should I go on?" He came back to the bed and sat down. "You know, you should really pay your taxes."

Remy tried to sit up again. Bullshit. This was all a real nice bullshit bluff. Who was this kid? He had cumstains on his sheets older than this overweening piece of shit.

"Still not interested in helping us?" The kid looked down and tapped the file. Then he opened it. He took out what seemed to be a bunch of glossy pictures. Instead of looking down at them, he started to toss them at Remy, one by one. They landed softly on his chest. Remy picked one up.

He looked.

"Nasty little business in New York, wasn't it?" the boy said softly. "Except that it wasn't little. It was a goddamn massacre. More Morlocks killed than anyone really cares to count. All these years later and we still don't know how many." He kept tossing the photos at Remy.

Remy's hands shook as he held the first photo. Then he looked at the next. One of a Morlock bludgeoned on a city sidewalk, his head nearly chopped away. Another of a Morlock kid sprawled in a corner, a trail of blood spilling from his mouth, his eyes open and searching.

The boy stopped tossing the pictures. He closed the file and set it on the bed. Now he looked straight at Remy through those sunglasses. "You can't tell me," he said quietly, "that you didn't know."

Time stopped for a minute. Remy felt his heart throb and then slow down. His eyes were burning but not glowing. His fingers were stiff, locked around a picture. He looked down. He didn't feel any energy flowing through him. Instead, he felt sick. He leaned over the side of the bed and threw up. Some of the vomit splashed. Some of it splashed onto the boy.

Both kids shot back away from him. Once he'd finished puking, he looked up at the boy, hot and fuming. He'd gotten the kid's glasses. "Damnit," the kid said. "My only pair. Fuck." He slipped away. To go off to the bathroom to clean those ridiculous things, Remy presumed.

The girl was saying something to the boy. "I told you," she was saying. "Jesus, Scott. Why did you have to push so hard? You don't know when to say when." Then she got up. When she came back she was holding a towel. "Here," she said. She handed it to him. He wiped his hands and his face. He picked up the photos and put them gingerly on the nightstand. Some of them had puke on them.

The boy called Scott was back in the room. He stood in front of the bed. "What does Sabretooth want with you?"

Remy lay back onto the headboard.

"Do you honestly think he's going to stop with you? No. He's going to kill every single goddamn one of your friends and loved ones until he gets what he wants. And he almost always gets what he wants."

The girl touched his arm. "He's right, Remy. No one you know is safe. And this whole thing? With him? With New York? We know it wasn't your fault."

He wondered where the fuck he'd been hiding for the past eight years. Why he hadn't seen any of this coming. God, he'd been so wrapped up in his little life with Dan that he thought he was just living a great old time under the radar. He sniffled. Thought for a minute. "He wants the location of somebody."

"Who?" the girl asked him.

He paused.

"We can help you," she said. "We're going to get this guy, don't worry."

"Some guy," he said. "Named Logan."

He watched them. They looked at each other. Then they got up and went over near the bathroom. "Is he telling the truth?" the boy whispered. "Who's Logan? I've never heard of this guy before."

"He's telling the truth," she said.

They came back to the bed. "Why does he want this Logan?" the boy asked.

"I have no fucking clue."

They exchanged glances again. She nodded. She looked at him. "So he just showed up and asked for a guy named Logan?"

Remy nodded. "I don't know what they are to each other. They seem to go back. Logan came to town years ago and asked me take him to Victor Creed. Said he was going to kill him. But I guess he didn't. Now Creed shows up and wants Logan. And I'm sick of this charade." He tried to sit up again and this time succeeded in pulling himself forward.

The girl nodded. She looked sympathetic. "Sounds like you've been bounced between these two men for a while."

He shook his head. "Quit it, lady. I've told you what you wanted to know. Drop the good-cop act. It's stupid and it's transparent as fuck."

The boy called Scott smirked.

"Now," Remy said. "Are you going to hand me over to Magneto? For my crimes against mutants? Or am I just going to have to go ask Creed to take me in?"

She shook her head and reached out to touch his arm again. "We told you," she said. "We work for Charles Xavier."

He blinked at her.

She looked back at Scott. He leaned back on his heels. "It's like I've been saying," he said to her. "We don't get enough press."


	13. Chapter 13

"I'm sorry," Jean said.

"Ma'am?" Remy was in the backseat of the kids' car, his long leg propped up against the door. He removed his hand from his face and found that she was looking at him in the rearview mirror.

Her eyes caught his. "I read your mind before. In the hotel room. When we were trying to get the answers out of you. It wasn't right, but I had to. And I'm sorry."

It was the middle of the day in the middle of April, and the day was a real scorcher. He was sweating away in the backseat, window down. The car was parked in front of a McDonalds. The other kid—Scott—was inside buying up some burgers. Six hours to go before he had to meet Creed, and he was sore and woozy. His body ached and his abdomen felt crampy. But beyond that, there was the way he felt emotionally: spent. Like shit. He could only cover his eyes with his hand when he remembered the photographs.

He looked out the window. "Why the question and answer session, then?" He paused. "You just felt like fucking with a person?"

"It was the only way to know for sure." She turned to look at him. "I can't know everything. I'm not omniscient. I can sense emotions. The shape of things." She turned back around. "I knew what you were feeling. I knew you were carrying around a lot of guilt. I told Scott. Unfortunately, he doesn't know when to check himself sometimes. But he means well."

He had more questions—how they'd known Creed had contacted him, for instance, or why they were so invested in bringing Creed in. But he was too tired and too wrung out to ask. He just wanted to get the hell back to his apartment. Or over to the university. He needed to get to Dan.

"I should go," he said. "I need to go check on some things. I'll come back." He started to open the car door, but it closed shut right in his hands. He tried to force it open again and could not. "Come on, lady."

"Remy, you can't go up against this guy alone." She turned around in the seat to face him. "I know you're concerned about your place, about—" She made a gesture. "But I promise you that we've got everything under control. We've had a protective detail outside of your place for the last three days. We've also tapped your phones. If anything's happening, we'll know about it." She paused. "I'm sorry about your dog."

He sighed in disgust and shook his head. "You knew about that? You knew that Creed was in my house and you just let me walk right in there? Jesus Christ, he could have killed me." He looked out the window and focused on an overflowing trashcan yards away. "Or my roommate," he said quietly. "What the hell kind of cops are you, anyway?"

"I told you," she said, "we're not the cops."

"Right."

"And we wouldn't have let him kill you. We knew he wasn't going to." She waited a few seconds. "It was the only way. We had to. We needed to see what he wanted."

"Yeah, well. Now you got your answer. How about letting me go?"

Scott opened the car door and dropped himself into the passenger's seat. He was carrying a couple of McDonald's bags. "Fish filet for you," he said to her, handing her a sandwich. "I don't get it," he said, smiling. "You always order the fish. No one likes the fish."

"I love it," she whispered. "The tartar sauce is spectacular." She laughed. They both looked at each other and laughed together, the boy's glasses fastened to his face.

Remy tried to keep from rolling his eyes. He'd already asked Jean about her friend's decision to wear sunglasses at all times. His mutation, she'd explained. She'd explained all about it, more than he really cared to know. Practically gave him a dissertation, talking about optic hoo-hah and brain damage. Yeah, brain damage. He could get on board that train.

"I bought a hamburger for you," Scott said, turning around and passing a sandwich to him. "I figured you'd be hungry."

He was. He'd thrown up hours ago, and instead of feeling nauseated he was famished. He hated McDonalds—and thought these two kids were pretty stupid for eating there when they were surrounded by the world's best Cajun cuisine—but he accepted the hamburger. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Scott unwrapped his own cheeseburger and started eating. "So this Logan guy," he said between bites.

"I've told you everything I know about the dude," he said. "Honest. He's just some cowboy from out west."

"I just can't figure out why we've never heard of him before," Scott said.

Remy rubbed his knee. "He's not really involved in anything. He keeps to himself." His leg started twitching. "So what are we doing? When are you going to let me go?"

"As Jean explained," Scott said, crinkling his wrapper, "you can't go this alone. We know you think you can handle this, but you're wrong." He turned around and looked at Remy. "You think he's just going to kill you? You have no idea what lies ahead. This whole thing? With Creed? With Magneto? You haven't even begun to realize what a shitstorm this is. What's brewing."

"The war, right," Remy said.

Jean started to speak. "This trial phase Magneto's going through is just the first step." She put her sandwich down. "During the 1970s, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of mutants were kidnapped. They disappeared." She turned to look at him. "You know. You were one." She nodded at Scott. "So was he."

Scott looked at his sandwich. "The lucky ones," he muttered.

"Magneto's interested in recovering the disappeared ones. So are we. He's also interested in court marshaling anyone he thinks had a role in deaths or kidnappings, all mutants who worked for these undercover government projects. But the trial thing is a sham. It's a smokescreen for what he's really up to."

"Yeah," Remy said. "He's gonna bring it. He's bringing it. Total world annihilation, I know." He thumped his food against the car floor. "Look. You seem like a nice pair of grad students or whatever, but what do you want with me?"

Scott folded his sandwich wrapper into a ball and glanced over his shoulder. "You help us get this guy, maybe you'll feel better at night. He goes away, you rack up some good karma points. We're just asking you to go draw him out. Change the meeting place so that it's someplace not too crowded. Minimize the risk of collateral. Then we'll take it from there."

"And what are you planning on doing?" He sat back and looked at both of them as they sat in front of him. "You have any idea what this guy can do? He can't be killed. You two seem like you got some skills, but this dude . . . this dude's touched."

"We have back up," Scott said. "We're also working with law enforcement." Scott fiddled with the air conditioner vent. "Dang, it's hot."

"The feds want Victor Creed more than we do," Jean said. "He's not just responsible for mutant deaths. He stepped on some serious toes a year ago, killed the daughter of a very important official. For these reasons, he's extremely sought-after. A real prize." She paused. "Sometimes it takes a human getting killed to really put things into perspective for outsiders. We don't like to work with government, but in this case we'll make an exception. They've got special prison technology to hold him." She cleared her throat. "We bring him in, we score some points with the government. They let us do what we need to do, you know? We get a mutant terrorist away from innocent mutants and humans alike. And we put a serious kink in Magneto's operations."

Remy rubbed his forehead with his hand. He closed his eyes. He didn't much care for all this talk—all this mutant talk. He'd _known_ mutants like this—mutants who kept tabs on things, mutants who talked of uprising and rights and insiders and outsiders and all this _drigaille_ and tried to get him to go along—but he just wanted to be left alone. Let other people worry about their civil rights. He had his life.

"So what we're going to do," Scott said, "is take you to a safe place. We want you to try to contact Creed again. Tell him about the new location. And we'll take it from there." He turned around again and gave Remy a small smile. "Simple."

"And I can go home when all this is done?" he said.

"Of course," Scott said. He turned around. "You might want to start filing a tax return, though. That shit's only going to get worse."

Jean started the car's engine and slipped on a pair of sunglasses.

###

When Logan got back from Japan he checked his P.O. box once. Out tumbled a few things—mostly Christmas cards from Remy. He ripped them open to find some scrawled messages. Inside jokes. Signed his name "Gumbo." Guy was a trip. He flipped over the envelopes to see check the postmark. The cards had come consistently over a period of three years—and then they'd stopped. Nothing for the last two years. Nothing from the other fellow, either.

He hadn't thought much about it at the time. People moved on, he knew. People got tired of thinking about you or waiting for you or diddling their youth away while you figured shit out. Other people didn't have the time to waste like he did. (It had been a rough, weird time finding out that he couldn't die. Finding out that the same that face rose to meet him in the mirror each morning was going to be there for as long as he had a consciousness. It was a drag. A bummer. Not at all liberating. In fact, suffocating.)

Still, he knew he'd look the cat up again. He knew he'd make a slow cross-country trip, take I-10 through Arizona and New Mexico and Texas until he got to Louisiana. Prize fighting was popular in the south, real underground too. He'd pick up some swag. Fighting was a pain, but it kept him in the clear. He never enjoyed it.

He did get to Louisiana, later that winter. But what he found at Remy and Dan's apartment was a four-person family from Mexico. He decided to ask Remy's next door neighbor where the two had gone.

The man, older and black, took off his hat and came outside to talk to Logan. He looked up at him, shielding his eyes from the sun and his breath caught in his throat. Emphysema. "Those two?" He shook his head. "Well, I can tell you that the black kid moved north. I saw the moving van out here one day, but I didn't get a chance to ask him where he was moving to."

Logan kept his hands on his hips. "North" meant nothing. Was it even possible to go farther south?

"As for the white guy." The man wheezed a little. "He disappeared two years ago."

Logan moved forward. "What?"

"Was here one day, then just wasn't here anymore. The cops came by and asked me about it. Asked me if I'd seen anything. I hadn't." The man coughed and couldn't stop coughing. Logan wanted to reach out and shake it out of him. When he'd finally composed himself, he said, "Nothing ever seemed to come of it. I don't know if the guy wandered off or if something happened to him." He stared at Logan. "He was in business," he said. "Connected guy. That family name's known here. Well, you know how these things go."

Logan did. Still.

He got tired of wandering around the Garden District, feeding off his own sorrow and disappointment. Oh, Gumbo. He knew mutants disappeared—for a variety of reasons—but this guy was rooted. And this guy was such a trip. Used to take him to every decent restaurant in Quarter, didn't even blink when the bill came. Just smiled and laughed about things, his hands working a cigarette or sliding over the surface of a table. "They all know what I am," he said one time, gesturing to a roomful of people at a nightclub. He raised a glass to them. "They don't care. In this city, people let you be. Or they call it magic. Even you, pal," he said, tapping Logan's knuckles. "You could have a right nice life here, you and your belt buckle and cowboy boots. Magic, huh."

And that was the way Remy was. It's what kept bringing Logan back. Remy acted like he'd always known him. Put him up, fed him, never asked for anything in return. The generosity was almost stifling—so much so that Logan could only stay for a few days at a time. He half suspected that Remy would someday ask for his piece. But he never did. And Logan, who had only about ten years of memories, knew already that this kind of generosity was rare. It was like a luxury, something to be taken out and treasured only for a time, and only once in a while. That's what Gumbo was—a real luxury. He couldn't just show up on his stoop every month or stay for weeks on end. He had to ration that good will out.

LeBeau's face was his first memory. A young face. A face he hadn't recognized at first in Koreatown. But then, over the years, he'd come to accept that that was the kid. That was the kid on the island, the kid from his dreams.

Logan dropped by the university. He remembered Remy writing him and telling him that Dan had finished his dissertation and was getting a teaching job in the comparative literature department. The secretary didn't even blink at him when she saw him. Just acted like weird out-of-town people coming in to ask about professors was an everyday occurrence. "Yes, Dr. St. Amant," she said. "He left us last year. Took a job with—" She opened a drawer and brought out a piece of paper. "University of Minnesota. That's right."

"Minnesota," he said.

"Yup. Boy, I hope he likes it up there." She grinned. "Long winters."

She gave Logan Dan's address at the University of Minnesota.

He went by the nightclub Remy frequented. Tried chatting up the bartender. The guy looked down, away, at the ice chests, anywhere but at Logan. "He disappeared," he said, popping the cap off a beer bottle for Logan and setting it in front of him. "Around the same time his dad died, actually. It was—well, nobody knows." He finally looked up at Logan. Came over so that they were talking face to face. "Everyone assumes he's dead. But his friends looked for a while. That one friend of his?" The bartender nodded. "Real shook up. Didn't really believe LeBeau was dead." He exhaled and opened his hands. "But the rest of us who knew LeBeau? I mean, the cat lived a life. The cat lived a real high stakes life. It was only a matter of time." He went over to the ice chest. Opened it. Then looked like he was remembering something. Closed it again.

###

A real high stakes life. Logan stayed in New Orleans for a while. He watched winter peel away. He watched color come back to the Garden District, the French Quarter. Watched the boats on the dock. Avoided Mardi Gras. Found a place to fight. Found that when he won most fights folks still got suspicious, despite what Remy had said about New Orleans. Found that he couldn't have a right nice life here after all. And there were too many ghosts. Decided it was time to move on. Looked at the address for Minnesota. Then decided to burn it. Dumped the ashes in the garbage and headed for the Rockies. Went to chase ghosts somewhere else.


	14. Chapter 14

Storm thinks this feels familiar. She's seen this before. She watches as Emma Frost gets up to leave the room and Remy, who has apparently been lingering outside in the hallway, comes out of nowhere. He stands in the doorway and blocks her. "Miz Frost," he says. "To what do we owe this special pleasure?"

Emma's just leaving the mansion. She had been sitting in the professor's study, having a one-on-one meeting with Storm. She approaches the doorway and squares off with Remy. "Why Remy," she says. "Never thought I'd see you this far north again. You look terrible, sweetheart. French Quarter not working out for you these days?"

He narrows his eyes. His hands are in his pockets and he doesn't move from the doorway. "Two words for you, ma'am. Fuck you."

"Fuck me?" She says. Storm can't see Emma's face, but she knows she's smiling. She laughs. It's the perfect set up. "That's the one thing you haven't done." She glances over her shoulder to smile one last time at Storm. "We'll be in touch." She turns around again to move past Remy.

He's not budging. "You leave these nice people alone," he says. Very serious now. He's trying to catch her eyes.

"Oh, Remy," Emma says. "Don't waste whatever paltry skill set you have left on me." She pushes past him.

Storm, who didn't bother to walk Emma out for various reasons, now watches as Remy slumps against the doorway and cranes his neck to watch as Emma lets herself out of the mansion. When they hear the door at the end of the corridor swing shut—when they're sure Emma's gone—he turns back to look at Storm. Still slumped against the door. "What the hell was she doing here?"

"Remy."

"What?" he says. He crosses his arms. A look of disgust crosses his face. He shakes his head and fixes his eyes on the ceiling. "Emma fuckin' Frost." Looks at her again. "Is she trying to get you to buy into her Ponzi scheme?"

Storm feels herself sink into the sofa's cushions. She really doesn't have time for this.

"Storm," Remy says. "Whatever she wants, walk away. I know this woman. Trust me. One white collar criminal knows another. That woman's an embezzler and a fraud."

Storm closes her eyes. She opens them again to study Remy. These days he looks pale and ordinary, not at all like the young dynamo who once readied the war room and breezed in and out of Xavier's and made them laugh on long stakeouts. She remembers how he used to grab his staff when they were about to exit the jet or the car. "Bring it home, people," he used to say. Or "Lock and load."

Now Remy just looks faded. His clothes are faded—that's part of it. He's assembled a crazy outfit with too many layers—jeans, a shirt, a v-neck sweater, a scarf, and gloves. It's January and he's cold. But despite all the layers, he looks smaller. As if he's been shrunken, flattened, ironed out, his big Cajun personality squeezed into this small Northeastern patch of dull gray hills and sunless sky. Something about him has been, yes, broken. Her heart breaks just looking at him.

"My daddy was an extortionist," he's saying now. "But she makes him look like goddamn Gandhi."

Storm sinks further into the cushions on the couch. She bends over, bringing her hands up to cover her eyes. She's trying not to get too emotional. If she cries, she may make the weather even weirder than it's been. Among other things.

"Hey," he says. He steps out of the doorway and closes the door quietly behind him. He walks toward her. "What's wrong? What is it?"

The kids aren't out of class yet, but they will be soon. Storm takes a deep breath and folds her hands in front of her, steadies herself emotionally. "She's offering to help with the school," she says.

"Well that's bullshit," Remy says. "I hope you told her you don't need her bullshit help before sending her on her way."

"We're overcrowded," Storm says. "We've gotten more applications than we know what to do with. And we still haven't staffed Scott and Jean's old positions."

"What about old Mrs. Rumplestick from Schenectady?" He asks, still standing there. He laughs to himself. "Woo, the kids just _love_ her."

"That's Mrs. _Reurmpalwise_ ," Storm corrects. "And she's from Poughkeepsie, not Schenectady. And I'm not hiring her on full time because she's terrible."

He laughs again. "She keeps asking me how to use the email. She clicked on an advertisement and thought she'd won a million dollars. She was practically hyperventilating when it happened, too." He smiles to himself and then looks back at Storm. She is not laughing along. A look of recognition and sympathy crosses his face. He lowers his voice. "Oh _chere_ , what's wrong?"

Okay. Before going forward, there are facts you need to know about Remy and Storm: Yes, they dated at one point. Yes, they slept together. No, it wasn't just a moment of weakness. Well, if it was, it was a moment of weakness that lasted six months, spilling from winter to spring to summer like a compounding late fee.

No, there are no hard feelings.

Well, not from Storm anyway. Believe it or not. And put this in your pipe and smoke it: she seduced him. He was older than she was; she was young and strong and reckless. Maybe a little too reckless. Maybe a little too presumptuous about the Cajun's emotional capacity for shrugging things off. She'd seen him flirt with and chase dozens of women—normal human women from the city—so she figured she'd step up. Try to lure him away from all that. Also: she was tired of watching Scott and Jean go nuts over one other, tired of theirs being the only viable relationship at Xavier's. So she played a hand with Remy. And then, folded.

At the time, Jean did her best to discourage the relationship. She approached Storm outside of the infirmary one day. "I have a friend at NYU," she said. "A teleporter. Cool guy. Why don't I give him your number?"

When that didn't work: "You know, Remy's a little older. He's been with an awful lot of girls." And then she hinted at other things in his past, too. Things she'd probably gotten by reading his mind. That was so Jean—to read people's minds and then drop small tantalizing hints.

At the time Storm had just shrugged it off. She'd assumed that Jean was just doing the big-sister thing, trying to head off what she saw as a potential disaster for both Storm and the team. Or she assumed that Jean was just being jealous, that she wanted to hoard Remy's attention for herself. Now Storm knows that Jean was indeed being protective—of Remy. Remy was the one who got hurt.

Logan knows that Remy and Storm have a history, but they haven't discussed it much. It's one of those things they leave stateside. Like his unrequited love for Jean. Better acknowledged but left untouched, like the pile of clothes in the middle of the floor you remember to step over but not put away. It's one of those things.

And if Remy thinks about any of this at all, he doesn't betray himself. Really—even back then, all those years ago—they were quite capable of going back to being just friends, of easing back into the working relationship they'd had before. Remy was old enough by then, and she was too. It was no big thing.

Now he looks at her with the concern of an old friend who, after a season of indulging his own grief, has realized that other people have problems too. He comes over and sits in the chair. "What's going on? What's really going on? Why was Emma Frost here?"

She gets up from the sofa and walks over to the chessboard. Neither she nor Remy was very good at chess. They left it for the professor and Jean, who both had an unfair advantage. Scott didn't even bother. But Storm and Remy played each other a few times. She was surprised he wasn't better at it, all his experience with card games and bluffing.

She sits down in front of the board. Remy gets up and comes over and sits across from her. He picks up one of the pieces: a knight. Looks at it.

"I need more help with the school," she says. "Emma says she knows people, teachers she can call."

"In exchange for what?" Remy asks. "Did she name her price, yet? Does she want a kickback? A piece of this place?" He looks at her. "Storm, that woman. She's not above board. Trust me. Back when I was in the shit, I used to come up against her all the time."

Storm just says, "I'm pregnant," and leaves it at that.

Remy continues to look at the knight in his hand. "Of course."

She stares at him. Then she touches her forehead and closes her eyes. "We were careful."

"You're mutants. It happens."

She props her cheek against her hand and looks at him. He's still studying the chess piece. "It's not—I don't want children. I know he doesn't either." She shakes her head. "We have enough children around here."

"The more the merri—" He puts the knight down and looks at her. (Really looks at her.) "No," he says. "That's not even an option."

She continues to stare at him. She can feel her eyes darkening, her energy gathering. "You don't get to weigh in on that."

He draws back, startled. "Sorry," he says quickly. And then he looks away. Looks down. Breathes through his nose. "No, it ain't my place. But you aren't givin' yourself a lot of credit."

She stares at the chess pieces.

"Hey, _chere_ ," he says. He reaches across the board and covers her hand with his. Looks at her and speaks very softly. "Tell him. Just tell him." Now he _is_ trying to work his magic on her.

The door cracks open. Logan steps inside. Remy pulls his hand away and Storm looks away. "Hey," Logan says. He doesn't look long enough to take in the strange scene. He doesn't notice anything. He's been distracted lately. "Who was the woman who just left?"

Storm sits back.

"Emma Frost," Remy says, his voice lingering on her last name.

"Who?"

"An old associate," Storm says, rubbing her nose.

"I saw her outside as she was leaving. She looked at me," he says. He stands there.

"Like lunch?" Remy says, tipping his chair back. "Join the club." He chuckles.

"No," he says, shaking his head, not even processing what Remy's just said. "Like—I don't know."

Remy lets his chair drop back. He looks at Storm. "Who knows. The wonderful world of Miz Frost." Glances at Logan. "Don't even waste your time trying to figure it out."

###

Logan is distracted because Rogue is very sick. "God, she looks terrible," Logan said to Storm when Rogue first got back to the mansion. She'd lost all kinds of weight. When Storm asked her about it, she said she just hadn't been feeling well. She had a chest cold, and the condition snowballed from there. It turned into the flu. Then it turned into pneumonia. Then, the day after Christmas, she collapsed. They rushed her to the emergency room. The doctors took an x-ray, sent her home, prescribed a round of antibiotics, fluids and bed rest. She may not make it back to college for her second semester.

Storm suspects the cure. There have been side effects reported—side effects that hadn't been disclosed at the time. Effects on the immune system, on the white blood cell count. Some people come through it okay. Others don't. It's even been reported—though very sparingly—that the cure wears off. No one knows for sure, not with so many reporters and pharmaceutical executives trying to put a spin on things.

They've converted a small room on the first floor into a bedroom for Rogue—the third-floor emergency single was too far away and too small. Remy's even set up an extra TV for her. He also goes in to keep her company when she's too sick to get out of bed.

On days when she feels well enough, he sits with her in the kitchen. They play card games and he cooks gumbo, which she eats. He says it'll build her up. He's doting on her, Storm knows, the way he used to dote on all of them. Without meaning to, Rogue is filling some kind of need for him, something that makes Storm nervous. Remy and Rogue are both needy. They both need something from one another. It could turn codependent. She's keeping an eye on it. One day she found them huddled together on the sofa watching TV. Rogue was leaning against Remy and he had his arm around her shoulder. He reached up and patted her head. Storm saw that. She asked Remy to help her with some filing but said nothing.

Logan's beside himself about Rogue. Not that he's said anything—he's too emotionally inaccessible for that. But he's been a bit distraught. "Did you try calling the doctor at the Cleveland Clinic?" he asks her one morning from his desk, eyes raw because he hadn't slept.

He's so preoccupied that he hasn't noticed anything different about Storm. And for this Storm is both grateful and a little pissed—grateful because it buys her some time. She's had her own doctor to call.

"He never got back to me," she says. "You could try calling yourself."

"I'm not good with doctors."

And so on. Something's got to give.

Rogue is the only one who seems unconcerned. She tries sitting up during the day so that she can read and take notes. Her junior thesis, she says. She says she's getting back up to Plattsburgh as soon as possible. Storm and Logan are trying to discourage this. They feel that Rogue doesn't understand how sick she is, how she could just get sicker if she doesn't take it easy.

"What's your thesis about?" Remy asks. Storm overhears him one day as hangs with Rogue in the kitchen. Rogue is reading while Remy cooks.

Storm is surprised to hear him asking about a thesis, though she shouldn't be. She knows he once lived with a literature professor.

"Passing," Rogue says. "Racial passing in American culture and history."

He's stirring the rice. He looks back at her and smiles. Then he chops up a hard-boiled egg and puts it on some toast for her.

Rogue pulls the blanket around her shoulders and pushes her books away. She always stops reading to eat what he has prepared.


	15. Chapter 15

When Remy tells Rogue stories about his life, she half suspects he's lying. He tells stories that sound like fairy tales, or like _Oliver Twist_. About how he was kidnapped from a hospital as an infant and raised by a gang of thieves. That he was reared mainly by an old fortune teller, he says. He's from the streets. He had dozens of kids he called brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles. When he was ten he picked the pocket of a prominent organized crime boss and found himself adopted. He was slated to take over the family biz, he says—it was all foretold in the cards. Then there was the arranged marriage to a childhood sweetheart that ended in tragedy, death, and exile. And that, he says, is the story of his formative years. When he finishes telling this bit of magic, he shrugs. "The sixties," he says.

Rogue has a lot of time to listen to these stories because she hasn't yet been able to go back to school. It's the end of January and she's still trying to recover her strength in Westchester County. She's been in touch with her professors through email. Logan has faxed doctors' notes to the university, but she suspects that she'll still have to take a hardship leave. About this she's depressed.

But she's also very scared. This is something she doesn't talk about and doesn't show to anyone.

She's not getting any better. The pneumonia's hanging around like bad luck. She keeps records of everything, charting her symptoms every day in a spiral bound notebook. Her temperature, her symptoms, what she ate, what she weighs, how often she coughs. She's determined to leave some kind of record of all this. On certain days, when she feels well enough to move around, she borrows a computer in the lab and googles until her fingers ache. There's a lot of information out there, but much of it is unverified. Much of it is also distressing.

She doesn't tell Remy she's afraid. They talk about everything but that.

He mentions that when he first met Logan he put him through a wall. "Really?" she says. "Why?"

He gets quiet and then smiles with his mouth closed. "Long story." And that's all he'll say.

Another time: "The first time I met Logan, he tried to stop me from doing a line of coke."

"You did coke?" she says.

"I did everything." And then, no more details about that.

That's typical of Remy. His style of storytelling is very elliptical. He talks around things. Omits. Skips ahead and then loops back. She attributes this to the fact that Cajun is his first language. He lacks the straightforwardness of most people she knows—Logan, for instance. Logan doesn't tell stories. He makes declarations. Remy, on the other hand, speaks passively. Things, it seems, just happen to him.

Lying around mansion has allowed Rogue to observe the daily rhythms of the place. The cooks and janitors arrive around five in the morning. Classes start at eight. There's lunch, dinner. Homework and recreation. Visitation. Bedtime.

But there are the other things, too. Kitty and Bobby and Peter and Jubilee come home a lot, it seems. They train in the danger room. They work with the kids. They help with the teaching. They lead weekend field trips to the movie theater or the mall. She didn't know they came home so often.

Remy helps out around the mansion now. He monitors the computer lab to make sure no one is looking at porn or playing video games. He also helps with snack time and video night and lets the kids call him by his first name. He is, in a way, a very endearing presence in the mansion. Storm and Logan seem to have stopped debating with him about whether or not he should go, or what he should do. They've seemed to accept that he's a fixture. At night, around eleven, he and Logan go outside to smoke. Rogue can hear them from her window, laughing and talking together. She aches to know what they're talking about. Things between men.

One afternoon she sits up in bed and watches the TV. Remy's sitting with her; he came in after classes were finished. They're watching a show on the history channel about pirates. He's shuffling his cards from one hand to the other.

"I knew a pirate once," he says.

She bets he did.

"A real pirate," he says. "Now, that's a three-sixty-five-a-year job."

"Like being an X-Man?" she asks.

He looks over and just smiles. She's been trying to wrestle some stories from him about his life with the X-Men, but about that he's very quiet. "You wanna play a hand? Seven-card stud?"

She brings her arm to her mouth and coughs. And keeps coughing.

"You need something?" he asks. "Cough drop?"

She shakes her head. She grabs a glass of water from the nightstand and drinks. "I don't want to play cards," she says when she's managed to calm down. "I want you to read me my fortune." He looks at her, puzzled. "You've told me you used to do it," she explains. "That you can do it with a regular deck."

"Ah, _petite_ ," he says. He shakes his head and looks down at his cards, smiling. "I don't need cards to tell your fortune. I can already tell you that you're gonna grow up to be grand." He furrows his brow and looks at her. "What's wrong?"

She waits a second, opens her mouth and then closes it. And then says, "Do you think I'm an asshole?"

He looks at her and blinks. "What?"

"I mean," she says, pulling herself into a position so that her body is facing him. "I keep thinking, I don't know." She looks down at her legs. "I keep thinking that I'm getting what I deserve. For taking the cure."

It seems to take him a second to process this. "No, sweetness, no," he finally says, pulling his chair over so that he's sitting closer to her. "That's not even . . ." He pauses. "You're just a little run down. Anybody can see that." Another pause. "I knew somebody like you once. A real egghead. Read all the time. Worked too hard with his books, and he was sick all the time too."

"I just wanted to be close to people," she says.

"Of course," he returns, no hesitation.

There's a tap at the door. It's slightly open. She looks up to see Bobby. "Come in," she says.

Bobby pushes the door all the way open but doesn't come in. "Hi Rogue," he says softly, quickly glancing at her and taking in the scene. She's sitting on her bed and Remy has pulled the chair over so that he's right next to her. "How do you feel? You look better."

This, she knows, is a lie. "I feel much better," she says.

"I'm glad to hear it." So much awkwardness between them. When did they get so awkward? He looks at Remy. "We're having a danger room session," he says. "Storm asked me to ask you to fill in for her."

"Okay," Remy says, standing up. He stretches. "I can't much keep up with you young people, though."

Bobby grins. "That's not true. You gave Peter a run for it last time."

"More like I outran him," Remy says. "I had no other choice. He can be kinda intimidating."

"No shit," Bobby says. He says something else and then disappears from the doorway. Rogue's not really listening anymore.

She watches as Remy tucks his cards in his pockets. He turns around and touches her cheek with one finger. "Rest, _petite_ ," he says. "We'll talk later. I have a story to tell you."

When he's gone, Rogue notices that he's accidentally left a card behind. It's under the chair. She leans off the bed and reaches down to pick it up. Ace of spades. The death card, she knows. Not that he's told her this—she's looked it up. She places it on the nightstand so that she'll remember to give it back to him.

###

She knows that people think there's something creepy going on between her and Remy. This couldn't be further from the truth. In fact, that idea is just laughable. They're just friends, just two southern people brought together by circumstances beyond their control. Despite his earlier misgivings, Logan seems to sense this, but Storm hovers. She breaks things up. Whenever she spots the two of them together she asks Remy to help her move some furniture or monitor a fire drill or supervise recess. "Yes, ma'am," he always says, no trace of resentment or reluctance. He just turns to Rogue and says, "We'll talk later."

One day she feels shittier than usual, if that's even possible. She's sitting in the kitchen while classes are going on, wrapped up in a blanket, trying to force down some soup, but the soreness of her throat makes eating almost impossible. Her eyes are also watering, and her fever has spiked a bit. She saw the doctor yesterday; they did another x-ray and said they don't know, they just don't know. They've given her a new round of heavy-duty antiviral, but this, whatever it is, isn't responding.

Remy is standing at the other side of the kitchen, near the refrigerator, leaning back on the counter. He's reading the newspaper. Logan walks in, looking tired and stressed out—probably because he spent the morning breaking up a fight between two roommates. He stops in the middle of the kitchen and looks down at Rogue. "I finally got a hold of the doctor in Cleveland," he says.

The doctor had been a friend of Jean's, but no one ever mentions this.

"He says he can see you on the second," Logan continues. "He's doing us a personal favor by squeezing you in. So, I'll take you there."

"That's a long drive," Remy says, looking up and folding the newspaper. "A good eight, nine hours? Why don't I drive her? You should stay here. So much to be done."

"Hmm, no," Logan says.

"I should go by myself," she says. "I'll fly."

Remy glances at her and smiles. "Not a good idea. Your head could explode, _chere_." He turns back to Logan. "Storm needs your help here. Me she can spare for a few days."

Logan seems to weigh the idea for a moment. Then he says, "No. Storm really wants me to go so that I can ask certain questions. She's drawing up a list. She'd go herself except, you know, she needs to be here. You'll just have to step up and take my place here."

Remy nods. "Alright." He slips out of the kitchen to go help with snack time. (Hummus day.)

Logan looks at her. "You feeling better today, kid?"

"Not really," she says. (With anyone else she would have lied.)

He purses his lips. "Don't worry," he says. "We'll get to the bottom of it."

She wishes people wouldn't tell her not to worry.

###

When Remy does eventually start to tell her stories about his life with the X-Men, he does so very sparingly. Doesn't tell her how or why he joined the team or why he left. Instead, he talks about slight, funny incidents. The time Cyclops left the car headlights on during a mission and drained the battery and thought they were screwed until Remy pointed out that he could easily give it a jump. The time Jean arranged a stakeout just so she could go to a Melvins concert afterwards. (The professor was not happy.) The time Remy tried to have a barbecue and almost blew up the whole mansion. The fact that he'd been kicking around the idea of getting his GED his entire life, but had lacked the motivation to do so until Jean lit a fire under his ass. (Literally, he says.)

In fact, Remy's the only one who will mention Jean. Around the mansion, the subject is taboo. Some days she wonders if people want to acknowledge that Dr. Grey ever existed. It would have been better, Rogue thinks, if Jean had just died at Alkali Lake.

Then, something else.

"A story," Remy says one evening after the kids are all in bed and the danger room session is over. They've been playing cards. Remy had realized his ace of spades is missing; he'd come back and slipped it back into his deck. "About Scott," he says.

They're in her room. He sits next to her bed and sets his cards down on the nightstand. "You have to promise not to tell anyone," he says.

"Of course," she agrees, and knows she's about to get the full story about something. But about this she's wrong. He tells her just a sliver, a sliver of something he knew about Mr. Summers. Who told Remy about this? Jean or Scott? Remy doesn't say. Rogue can only guess. Back when Mr. Summers and Dr. Grey were in college, he says—back before Remy knew them—they ran away from their classes for a few days. From everything. They took a little road trip down to Maryland. "Do you know the NIH?" Remy says.

"The National Institute of Health?"

"They were running trials," he says. He lowers his head but continues to look at her. "Mutant trials." He waits a few moments. "You see, he always had such terrible headaches."

"You mean—you mean that he was looking for a cure?"

Remy leans forward and touches her bedspread. "He was always so afraid. Of his power. Afraid he would hurt her."

She says, "I thought—I mean, Mr. Summers was the one who always told us to take pride in our gifts no matter what they were. That just seems so unlike him."

Remy nods quickly as if conceding the point. "But people are complex, _petite_. That's all I'm tryin' to tell you." He takes his cards from the nightstand.

"Well, obviously he didn't go through with it," she says. She imagines a much younger Mr. Summers and Dr. Grey—even younger than she is now—outside of the NIH, talking it over. Maybe arguing. She imagines that they have sneaked away from their colleges, their lives, hoping that the professor won't find out but knowing that he probably already has. She imagines them together, the full force of youth behind them, their lives opening in front of them, trying to come to some kind of decision. And then, hand-in-hand, turning and walking back to the car.

"They couldn't help him at the NIH," Remy tells her. "That's what happened." He spreads his cards out on her bedspread. "And eventually his headaches got a little better. But—" He looks down, unsure of what to say. "I'm just tryin' to tell you."

He just wanted to be able to look at people, she thinks. And he wanted people to be able to look at him. She knows what Remy is trying to say.

He picks up a card and flips it over. "Oh look sweetheart," he says. "That's you. That's your card." Queen of hearts. He hands it to her.

There's a knock at the door. Rogue looks up to find Storm holding onto the doorknob. "How are you feeling?" she asks Rogue.

"A little better," Rogue replies.

"Good." She nods. "Remy, Logan needs you in the kitchen."

"Give me one second," he says, but he's already on his feet and putting the chair back with the desk. Storm says okay and retreats.

When Rogue's sure they're alone again, she says, "She's still so angry with me. She'll never forgive me." She holds the queen of hearts in her left hand.

"She's not angry anymore, sweetie, trust me," Remy says, his hand still on the back of the chair. "She's just very preoccupied."

"About the school?"

He tucks his cards in his pockets. "About everything. But you keep that card, okay? That's yours now. You take that with you to Cleveland."

She says she will and watches as he quietly leaves her room, closing the door behind him.

###

On the day Rogue leaves with Logan, Storm comes outside to say goodbye. This surprises Rogue. Storm has been avoiding her—afraid of getting sick, Rogue thinks. Afraid that she'll catch whatever disease Rogue is carrying around and then not be able to run the school for a while.

Logan's already behind the wheel of the car. She wonders what they'll talk about during the drive.

Remy's there, too. He's standing in the driveway, his boots in the snow. He's not shivering. He's been smoking a cigarette, but when he sees Storm coming, he drops it on the ground. Snuffs it out.

"I just came to wish you good luck," Storm says. Then, without hesitating, she reaches over and puts her arms around Rogue. Hugs her. Not just out of obligation to the moment, either. A real hug. She cups the back of Rogue's head in her hand.

Rogue knows that Storm should be angry with her at this moment, for several reasons. First, she took the cure. Second, she kind of ruined Christmas and New Year's. Third, she's caused so much worry and put a damper on things around Xavier's. Fourth, she's now stealing Logan away during the busiest time of the year. Fifth, she's causing Logan a lot of strife. No one blames himself for things more than Logan—he's the one who let her walk out of the mansion that day. She wants to tell him to drop it, stop thinking about that. If she hadn't gone then, she would have gone some other time. There were many opportunities.

But Storm just holds onto her. "Tell Logan to call when you guys get in tonight," she says. She lets Rogue go and walks her to the passenger's side of the car.

Remy doesn't wave goodbye. He just stands there, arms folded in front of his chest. He's not even looking at the car as it's driving away. He looks away, or at the ground.


	16. Chapter 16

Remy knew Jean was in the infirmary. He took the elevator downstairs and stepped into the hall. Sure enough. She was bent over the table, propped up on her elbows, staring at what he figured was a report. Her hair was tied back and she looked very serious and pretty. She wasn't wearing her white doctor's coat but just a sweater and a pair of jeans. He smiled when he saw her, but she didn't look up. So he slid onto the gurney and lay down. Now she looked over at him. "Read my mind," he said.

"You managed to track down Gary DeFrees?" she said. She straightened. "I didn't have to read your mind to figure that out."

He stopped smiling. "He's clear of all this shit, you know. He ain't working for Magneto."

"Really," she said.

"I spent two days disguised as a homeless person camped in front of the Hellfire Club. I have at least half that in audio surveillance. And then I spent six hours sweating him." He held up his hands. "Dude's clean."

She bent over to get something out of the drawer. "Good luck convincing Scott and the professor of that."

On cue, the elevator popped open and Scott stepped into the hallway. Remy knew it was him because of his quick, decisive pace. He stepped into the infirmary, hands in his pockets. "You're back," he said. "Are you okay?"

Remy sat up and slung his legs over the side of the gurney. "Right as rain." He handed Scott a slim file. "Info on your boy."

Scott took the file. "DeFrees changed location. The professor and I tried to call you to tell you. We couldn't get through to you and we were concerned."

"I turned off my phone," he said. Then took in Scott's glare. (Remy had learned, like all of Scott's friends, how to decode his expressions despite the glasses.) "I was tryin' to pass as a bum. Handheld phone contraptions raise a few eyebrows."

"So how did you know where to find him?"

Remy scratched the back of his neck. He was itchy from not having bathed for two days. "He was at a methadone clinic in the Bronx." Remy paused, waiting for a sign of recognition from Scott. When he didn't receive one, he said, "Former government project guinea pigs end up in one of two places: dead, or bouncing between a bar and a methadone clinic. But," he said, pushing himself up from the gurney, "he's not the guy you're looking for. Zero involvement with Magneto."

"That's not possible," Scott said. "We have it on good faith that DeFrees is on the inside."

"And I have it on good faith from three of my contacts that DeFrees has nothing to do with Magneto." He put his hands on his hips. "I talked to the guy myself. For six hours. He's just another oppressed mutant taking it up the ass from the man. His words, not mine."

Scott skimmed the file, leaning back against the counter. "That just doesn't make any sense. We've never been this wrong before."

"Yeah, well," Remy said. He now tucked his hands in his pockets and glanced over at Jean. She had that "I told you so" look on her face. Remy liked Scott—liked him a lot, actually—but the kid could be so overbearing, so controlling when it came to missions. And he hated to be proven wrong. "You're looking for another cat."

"Too bad Jean had to work today," Scott said. "Or too bad you couldn't bring him back here. Then we'd know for sure."

"He was telling the truth."

Scott stood up and closed the file. "Maybe I'll check it out myself," he said.

"That's fine, you do that," Remy said. "But while you're calling a substitute for your Spanish classes because you're out running down dead ends, the real instigator gets away scot-free. And I got it from one of my contacts that something big's about to go down."

Scott looked up. "Like what?"

Remy started to head for the hallway. "That's what psychics are for." He needed to shower. He had to wash away two days of Times Square. He absolutely hated being dirty.

###

So, Remy's new life. He'd been living with the X-Men for nearly a year and a half now. He could tell you what he did better than he could tell you how he had gotten here. This is what he did: surveillance. Went down to the city. Pounded the pavement. Massaged his relationships with old contacts into something new. Made new friends. Helped to track down the disappeared ones. Helped the professor and Scott and Jean figure out what Magneto was planning. With Jean, he questioned people. Between her telepathy and his ability to hypnotize, they usually got the truth out of folks.

And because Remy wasn't a teacher or a medical intern or the headmaster of a private boarding school, he had more time than the others to fully ingratiate himself in the east coast's secret mutant underbelly. He spent days and days at a single stretch in New York or Boston or the suburbs of Jersey. The relationships he'd spent his entire life cultivating—for illegal ends—now served the X-Men well.

And to be honest, he loved it.

Maybe it was the rush. After he'd been living with the X-Men for a year, he picked up a book in the professor's study, something about substance abuse. Read about this thing called "addiction transfer." Yup. Sounded about right. He put the book back before the professor rolled into the room to begin one of their "sessions."

But the rush wasn't everything. He liked the team. He genuinely liked these people—liked belonging to them.

He also liked the opportunity to forget.

"You have to just go on and forget things," Jean told him early on one day when they were talking in the infirmary. "You have to forget the life you had before and think about what's in front of you."

But forgetting was almost an impossibility. He'd never forget. He could only hope to be forgiven. That was the thing. Every disappeared kid he tracked down, every Magneto agent he sniffed out, brought him that much closer to putting New York behind him.

He had to try to forget that Dan was out there, maybe still looking for him. Or maybe not anymore. He'd recently found out that Dan had moved to Minnesota, and maybe he sort of had someone new. That was good. Better off for him. (It was a wound Remy tried not to spend much time probing. His life was fine when he was _doing_ something—running the streets of New York or training in the danger room—but when he stopped to think, to dip below the surface, he lost himself. Had trouble breathing. Some mornings he awoke from dreams to find he'd been crying. Or that he'd come. Sometimes both.)

"Few of us have families we keep in touch with," Jean told him. "Few of us have families at all. Scott is an orphan. I see my parents occasionally, but I'm definitely in the minority on that." She paused and looked at him. "Really. It's safer that way." Then: "You know, with people—normal people—it's always dangerous."

He hadn't intended to abandon Dan—no, not ever. But things had gone sideways after they caught Creed. Magneto, as it turned out, was loose and in the area. Looking for Remy, they assumed. They said they needed to take him back to a "safe house" in upstate New York. They left Storm to watch over things in New Orleans—"she doesn't mind because she likes the Gulf Stream currents," Scott explained.

They took him to see their professor, a man in a wheelchair who explained things. He explained things better than Scott or Jean had. And Remy searched this face. Knew this face. If the man knew anything about Remy—if he recognized him or made any judgments about him—he didn't betray this. He just said, "Stay with us for a few days."

And a few days in New York turned into a few weeks. Eventually he confronted Scott and the professor and demanded that they let him go. "You're free to go," Scott said, "anytime you want. But we wouldn't advise it." They talked about his safety. The safety of his loved ones. He had already explained that his roommate probably thought he had died—he'd left a letter. They'd advised him not to contact Dan at all.

That night, he decided to badger Scott into driving him to the train station. Scott did, reluctantly. When they arrived, he leaned over to talk directly into Remy's ear. "You and I both know," he said, "that the bill for New York is going to come due. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow. But you are going to have to pay it. Someday. And we might not be there when that happens."

"What are you saying?" Remy asked.

"I'm saying that you should carefully weigh your options before going home."

"You're saying I shouldn't go home. What do you want from me?" He leaned back against the door.

"We can protect you here. And your being here makes sure your loved ones stay off of Magneto's radar. You go back? You may jeopardize everything."

He closed his eyes and ran his fingers alongside his right temple. "What are you asking me to do?" It was a question to which he already knew the answer.

"Help us," Scott said, so certain of himself. At twenty-three the guy was something of a whiz-kid—finishing up a master's degree, teaching a few dozen mutant kids, and saving the world. And now, recruiting Remy. "Permanently," he said.

"You're shitting me," Remy said.

"You have talents." He shrugged. Smirked a little. "You seem okay. The professor knows. He'd know. He told me." The smirk dropped from his face. "It's a hard life, but it's rewarding. We take care of each other. We're really the only family most of us have. The professor—he's amazing. He can help you, you know, if you let him. The same way he helped me. Without him I would have ended up in prison or dead or someplace worse. He can teach you how to channel your power into something more useful."

"I already use it for something useful."

Scott smirked again. "Of course." He laughed quietly. "I'll just tell you that there are other perks that come with working for us. Access to cutting edge technology that most people haven't even dreamed of, for instance. Your own car. Then there's the room and board and health insurance. Even free dental and vision."

Remy shook his head. "How much does it cost to insure those babies?" He pointed to Scott's visor. Then he gripped the car door's handle. "I think I'll take my chances in New Orleans." As he opened the door he looked back at Scott, his big long face partially hidden by the visor. "It's just not my gig. You guys seem like you work some long hours. I have a life, you know."

"Right," Scott said. "In casinos."

Remy turned back and narrowed his eyes. Glared. Wondered how this little pissant got off being so fucking dismissive. He didn't know the first thing about Remy's life, his circumstances. About what he'd _really_ be leaving behind in New Orleans.

And then, the money shot. Scott reached over and grabbed his forearm. "Remy," he said. He bent forward. "I know what you went through. I know because I went through the same thing."

Remy let go of the door's handle and fixed himself on Scott's face. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, unthinking.

"Three Mile Island," Scott said, his hand still around Remy's arm. He tightened his fingers. "I was there."

Remy pulled his arm away, jerking it harder than he intended to. He pushed his jacket's sleeve back in place and then gripped the door handle once again. "Well that's funny because I don't recall you."

"It was after," he said. "After you." He paused for a breathless second. "But I know what you went through because I went through the same thing and it took years—"

Remy turned away and climbed out of the car. He stood on the curb and shut the door. He had wanted to say something more, but instead he just turned around and walked toward the train station.

(To think: All those years of searching for Logan, all those years just so that he could have someone to talk to. Someone who knew what it was to know. And here it was, the big reckoning—some kid sitting next to him who actually knew a thing or two—and he walked away. In ten seconds he got from some overeager boy what he couldn't get from Logan in ten years, and he balked. Shared empathy wasn't empathy at all, he suddenly knew—it was a request. A favor that had to be repaid. Ransom.)

Once inside he found a payphone and took the receiver off the hook and held it to his ear. Listened to that dial tone for God knows how long. Wait until the busy tone started. Then pressed the hook down. Lifted it and dialed 0. "I'd like to make a collect call," he said. He gave the number.

"Who should I say is calling?"

His eyes watered. He turned around and looked at the surrounding scene. People. People calmly walking to their destinations, their eyes lit by overhead lamps. People standing in line for tickets. Even at this late hour, folks had places to be.

"Sir? Who should I say is calling?"

He put the phone back on the hook. Then he walked over and stood in between the rows of seats. Sat down and put his head in his hands. Got up again and crossed the room. Picked up the payphone once again, and once again listened to the dial tone. Put in a quarter this time. Made a different call to a different number.

"We'll be right there to pick you up," Scott said.

Minutes after the click, minutes after the dial tone had stopped ringing in his ear—minutes after the busy signal and the automated voice—Remy hung up the phone. The receiver exploded as he set it back on its hook. The phone fell from the wall and to the floor and shattered.

###

Then came a dark, blank period when Remy didn't get out of bed. This was after Jean showed him what he already knew but didn't want to find out.

"Just a check-up," she told him, two months or so after he'd been living at the mansion. He'd already been working out with the team members, figuring out what he was capable of in the danger room. "Like a physical. We all went through it. No big deal." She smiled when she told him. He knew she was trying to be some kind of doctor and figured he was just a little practice run, a voodoo doll for her to poke and prod. And he didn't mind pretending to be helpless for the benefit of a pretty lady.

When he asked her what she was doing with her life other than saving the world, she told him she went to medical school at NYU. "Wow," he said. "That's impressive." And he _was_ impressed. Living with an egghead for all those years had instilled in him a certain reverence for people with big brains. Even if he thought intellectual people were a little hard to take, he had to give it to them: they knew their shit.

"Not really," she said. "Everyone knows that NYU is the poor man's Columbia. Columbia is where Charles once taught, you know."

She was twenty-five at the time, a little older than her boyfriend. Self-possessed, a real lady. Not like Storm, who was younger and harder to pin down. Storm reminded him of the girls he ran with as a kid, these wasp-waisted Caribbean chicks who laughed with you one minute and looked through you the next. Jean was more consistent. He suspected she'd developed her trademark patience and sincerity from all those years of reading others' thoughts. "It was hard," she once confessed to him, "growing up. Not being able to filter things out. I hated it. Rebelled against it. Thank God Charles found me when he did. I might not be alive today if he hadn't."

So because she had such a kind face, and because she looked at him with such sweetness and empathy, he decided that he'd let her mess him up a little. Pin electrodes to his skin. Take a few x-rays. Get a nice EKG reading that she could take in and show the boys.

Instead, she took him to the high-tech room for a CT scan. Shut him in a little machine and pumped him full of something that made him warm and woozy. In the middle of it he started to get restless and impatient. He could feel his energy gathering.

"Remy," she spoke. "Just stay calm a little while longer, okay?"

He wanted music. He wanted to hear "Desperado." He clamped his eyes shut. The machine around his head was small and airless, and the lights that flashed made him motion-sick. When he thought about it—when he really thought about where he was, what he was doing, and what he'd left—he started to tense up and hyperventilate.

"Remy," she said again. "Try and relax. I've almost got what I need."

"I need to get out of here," he said.

She paused. "Okay."

In twelve seconds she had him completely out of the machine. He rose from the table wearing nothing but a pair of sweats. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye—she was behind some kind of desk. He went to put his shirt and shoes back on.

"Meet me in the other room in about a half an hour," she said.

He nodded, slipping his shirt over his head.

When he walked into the other room, he found that Jean wasn't alone. She was sitting at a computer staring at a screen. Scott was leaning against the desk talking to her and the professor was in his wheelchair, adjacent to them. When he walked in, they fell silent and looked up at him. "'Scuse me," he said, "am I interrupting?"

Jean looked at Scott. He waited a second. "Oh, I'm just on my way out," he said. He got up from the desk and walked around to leave the room. He passed by Remy and patted him lightly on the arm on his way to the door.

Remy turned to watch Scott leave. Then he glanced back at Jean.

"Remy, why don't you come over and sit in that chair next to Professor Xavier?"

He nodded and took a seat. She pulled her chair out from the desk so that she was facing him. Then she started to talk. What she said initially meant nothing to him. What she said he blocked out. She was saying something about experimentation. She was saying something about an incision made in his skull. He looked down and reminded himself to breathe. Now she was saying "brain tissue removal."

He stood up without looking at her and heard her voice trail off. Then he turned to leave the room. He could only imagine what he looked like to them as he walked away. He fixated on the doorknob beneath his hand. Then, the hallway.

He heard her say "Remy," and the professor said something to her. He didn't hear what it was because he was already out the door and down the hallway.

There were many things he wanted to do at that point. Many things he could have done. He could have hitched a ride down to the city and gone to a bar or scored a little something, or gotten himself fucked. That was what he really wanted to do: go get fucked. Instead he went to the basement room where he'd been living, shut the door, stripped off his clothes, and went to bed. And stayed there for a long time. Someone came to his door at one point—Jean or the professor. Maybe even Scott. But he didn't let them in, and he didn't come out.

He didn't know how many days passed. He didn't shave or shower or get up too often. He slept. When he awoke, sometimes it would be daytime, and then sometimes it would be night. Sometimes he could hear children playing outside, and other times he could hear them playing inside—and other times it seemed as though the noise was coming from within him. He felt haunted. He felt as if an unseen person was sitting on him, straddling him and pinning him down. He felt as if his mind was an attic, a room he'd closed off from the rest of his life.

The professor came into the room at one point and talked to him. He didn't hear or process anything the man said. Then someone left food for him, food he never ate. Then someone took the food away.

One day he found he simply wanted to get up. He awoke to see that the sun was out. He put on his clothes without bothering to shower or shave and grabbed his jacket and a hat. He went outside. He didn't really go anywhere. He didn't want to. He sat under a tree in the field beyond the basketball court and picked at the grass. Then he leaned on his side and tossed his cards into his upturned hat as it lay on the ground.

Jean was the one who found him, of course. She'd been coaching the girls' soccer team. (How she had time to do that—along with acing her classes at NYU and all this X-Men bullshit—he had no idea.) She sent the kids to the shower and came over to sit by him. Her hair was pulled back and she was wearing shorts. She sat facing him, her legs tucked underneath her. She didn't say anything for a long time and he sensed that she was poking around.

"I'm not thinking of anything," he said. "Ain't no thoughts to read today."

"I'm so sorry," she said. She ran her hands along the grass and leaned back on her palms. "About the whole check-up thing. About everything. I—I don't know what I'm doing sometimes."

He continued to toss cards into his hat one by one. He pressed the nine of clubs between his thumb and forefinger before letting it go. They said nothing to each other for several minutes.

Then he said, "I don't get you."

She looked up at him. Her eyes were questions.

He sat up and took off his jacket. "I mean, what are you doing? Here?" He looked around at the grounds. "What do you get out of this? I look at you and see—" He stopped talking and studied her. Wondered if he even needed to go on. Her face was tilted downward but she was looking at him, her eyes steady and unblinking. "I get your boy, one-eye. I get Cousin Itt. I can even dig weathergirl. They all seem like they got a bone to pick. Like me." He sat cross-legged and folded his hands. "But you? You got the world by the goddamn tail. You're beautiful and brilliant. You're the kind of touched you can hide. You could be doing anything. But instead you're here. What the hell are you doing? If I had what you got, I'd be finishing up medical school so I could go be some famous whatever and make a ton of money and retire on a beach. That's what I'd do." He grabbed his hat and dumped out the cards onto the ground. Then he tucked his jacket behind his head and lay back against the tree trunk.

She looked at him for a moment and then nodded. "Do you know about Scott?"

He shook his head.

She continued. "He was born in Alaska and grew up there for a while. Then, when he was quite young, he and his family were in a plane crash. His parents died but Scott survived. He ended up in an orphanage in Nebraska." She looked down and nodded and tightened her lips for a minute. Then spoke again. "When he was a teenager, he was abducted. He ended up at Three Mile Island, just like you. He wasn't there as long as you were, or at the same time, but they did things to him. I don't have to tell you." She looked Remy straight in the eyes. "The others have similar stories. You should ask Storm. There are things she could tell you." She continued to look at him. "Our students have stories too. Some come here and they can't even tell you their names. And I—I feel all of it. I love Scott. I decided early on that I as long as I could breathe I would do my best to keep these things from happening to other kids."

Remy swallowed and put his hat on.

"You're the same," she said.

He shook his head. "No. We ain't the same." He crossed his arms over his chest and looked up at the tree branches above him.

She crawled towards him and sat next to him against the tree trunk. She looked towards the mansion. "See those kids?" She gestured toward a boy and a girl walking together in the courtyard. The girl was blond and had a smart smile. The boy was standing next to her trying to pinch her arm, but she was laughing about it. They were both laughing. "Look at them. God, our students love to smile, but what they're feeling is something else altogether. They're twelve, thirteen years old. You know how they feel because you were up against the same things. Could you look at them and then walk away from this?"

He pulled his hat over his face. He felt her put her arm around his shoulder. He took his hat away from his face. "I'm sorry," he said, the words catching in his throat. "I don't know why I get like this sometimes."

She knew what he meant. "We've all had a nervous breakdown. Seriously. It's like a rite of passage. You should just talk to the professor. He can help." She continued to rub his shoulder. "Why don't you come inside for dinner?"

He shook his head. "I want to stay outside."

She stood up and shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked down at him. "This weekend is Fourth of July. Scott and I are going to visit my parents. They have a beach house on Long Island. Do you want to come with?"

He shrugged. "Okay." In all honesty, he was a little touched by the invitation. It seemed so sweet.

"Great," she said and headed for the mansion.

###

He found Storm later that week and mentioned the upcoming weekend on Long Island. She looked up from a book and laughed. "The beach house," she said.

"I take it you ain't coming?"

She laughed again. Then she rolled her eyes. "They're so annoying. I can't believe you'd even consider it. They just make sick animal faces at each other and I want to pull down some lightening and put them out of their misery." She looked at him as if making some kind of allowance. "You know, you should stay here with me. You and I could put in some good training hours together. I haven't gotten to work with you one-on-one yet. Scott seems to want to keep you all to himself. You're his new project." She rolled her eyes again before looking back at her book.

He decided to go to Long Island. In Scott's car he sat in the back and let the wind from the open sunroof hit his face. He didn't mind third-wheeling it. Storm thought Scott and Jean were annoying, but he actually thought they were very charming together, a right nice couple. They reminded him of him and Dan—but slightly less x-rated. (No sex in public restrooms. No swinging.) The one thing he didn't like was their music; they listened to moody stuff, mostly British, the Smiths and Tears for Fears. They didn't get his Don Henley, Jackson Browne and ELO. They listened to one song all the time—"There Is a Light That Never Goes Out." It made him want to kill himself. He asked them to put on any other song, any other song by any other band, so Scott put on REM.

Jean's parents had a pretty nice beach house, a ranch right on Long Island Sound with a bright, airy patio. Her parents were nice too. Her mom had a spread waiting for them—cold cuts and potato salad and tomatoes and spinach dip, the whole thing. It was some stellar shit. He even had a beer even though he'd sworn off drinking.

"We've heard all about you," Jean's mother said as they sat down to eat. She was wearing a sundress and she looked basically like an older version of Jean, her hair sun streaked, little flashes of gray tucked behind her ears.

"Ma'am?" he said.

"Jean says wonderful things about you. You're the nice young man from Louisiana."

He'd been called worse. He just smiled and caught her eyes. "You have a beautiful house, ma'am. And the lunch is just wonderful."

She beamed and said he could call her by her first name.

Jean's dad asked if he found people unfriendly on the east coast.

"Nah," he said, still grinning. He glanced back at Jean's mother and softened his eyes. "Folks are just folks no matter where you're at." In truth, he thought the people in New York were total assholes.

"What's your gift?" Dr. Grey asked.

"Gift?" He cast a sideways glance at Jean.

Jean inhaled. "He can manipulate energy. It's somewhat like telekinesis. He also has some hypnotic ability."

"That sounds extremely useful," Dr. Grey said.

He nodded slowly and then smiled again at Mrs. Grey. "It definitely has its benefits."

That afternoon Jean pulled her books out and said she needed to study, so Scott and Remy took a boat out on Long Island Sound. Remy knew a thing or two about boats. He and Dan had never sailed to Jamaica, but they'd been around. They used to take a boat out on the Mississippi and occasionally the Gulf.

On the boat, shirt off, wearing white shorts, Scott looked east coast born-and-bred; Remy never would have guessed that he was from Alaska or Nebraska or some goddamn hinterland. He told him that. Scott laughed. "That's what Jean says all the time. She teases me." Then he looked at Remy. "Tell me, Remy. Were you hitting on Jean's mom back there?"

Remy leaned against the side of the boat and took a swig of his beer.

"Seriously, man. She's—"

"Your future mother-in-law?"

Scott set his beer down. "I was going to say that she's already taken." He turned on a small hand-held radio and started to fiddle with the dial so that he could find the Yankees game.

Remy looked down. His legs were splayed out in front of him. "Here I thought you were gonna pop the big question at dinner tonight. I was gonna ask you what kind of ring you could get on a private school teacher's salary." He took another swig of his beer. "I thought that's what you were up to this weekend. Among other things."

Scott played with the antenna. "Damn." He couldn't get a good signal. He looked up at Remy. "Jean and I aren't really thinking marriage."

Remy tilted his head back but kept his eyes on Scott. "Why the fuck not?"

Scott looked up, a look of disbelief on his face. "I didn't think I'd have to defend our decision to you of all people. But anyway, since you asked, we just don't think it's for us. We don't need to buy into a Western, patriarchal, heterosexist institution to love each other."

Remy snickered. "I think y'all do too much thinking."

Scott sat down, his legs tucked under him. He continued to fiddle with the radio dial. Then he set the radio down. "If you must know, the whole marriage thing _also_ makes us kind of nervous for other reasons. Anything where legal formulations are involved—well, the government keeps tabs. For two mutants who do what we do . . . the last thing we need is to have our names popping up in public record. And who knows what the future holds."

"Fuck the government," Remy said. "Fuck the future. You should just do what you want."

Scott picked up the radio to try to find the signal once more.

That night they made a fire on the beach. Jean's parents sat with them for part of the evening and then they went back to the house. Remy figured he'd head on back too and let these two kids be alone. Then Scott reached for his guitar. Remy knew he played the guitar; he'd seen him at the mansion teaching some chords to a few teenagers. At the time he'd tried to stay out of sight, tried to make it seem like he wasn't interested in what Scott could do. Scott could already do so much. Of course he could play the guitar too.

Now he watched Scott wrestle some music out of the quiet night. He reached out and played with the sand beneath his hand. Dan had played—not as well as he played the piano, but still. His playing was actually something that drove Remy crazy. A person would be trying to think or talk on the phone and these jangly chords would start up in the bedroom or the living room. Dan played bachata, not the college radio folk shit Scott was trying to impress them with. "Can't you wait until I ain't here?" he asked Dan one time on a Saturday afternoon when he was trying to watch a Marlins game.

Dan had offered to teach him how to play the guitar and he'd never bothered to take him up on the offer.

He opened his mouth to say something. Then he closed it. He had no idea what he wanted to say. He wanted to thank Scott and Jean for his life. Jean looked up from across the fire. Her eyes were lit. She smiled at him, closemouthed. Scott continued to look at the guitar as he picked apart some song. Remy stood and said he needed to go to bed.


	17. Chapter 17

They haven't spent a night apart in more than two years. Even when they weren't sleeping together, each knew where to find the other—but now Logan is away, and Storm is starting to feel the pinch. And that's weird. She was always the independent one. Scott and Jean were always on top of each other, always so clingy and concerned about each other's whereabouts, and annoying about it too. They were two people who'd never lived apart, never lived alone, never had to pay for a meal, never had to go shoe shopping by themselves or get the oil changed without someone to talk to. Storm swore she was different.

But then she met Logan. Who failed to go away when he should have. And then they started this ridiculous fucking life together, and every month she waited for him to pull up stakes and move on, but he seemed to want to stay put. And that's how they ended up like this.

So when she gets a phone call from Logan late in the evening, she's been waiting for it. She picks it up right away. He tells her that they've arrived in Cleveland and have found a hotel close to the clinic. The next morning they'll go for Rogue's tests. They've also had dinner, he says—as much dinner as Rogue could force down, anyway. She's been throwing up, he says. Now she's in the shower.

Five hundred miles away, Storm can hear the sadness in his voice, the anxiety. She wishes she were there with him. She decides, for once, to just say that. "I wish I could be there with you."

"I wish you could, too."

It's been a weird day at the mansion—nothing too extraordinary, just a little strained. She found out that two middle-school boys, Jason and Hernan, had been keeping a cat upstairs in their room. They'd been raiding the cupboards to feed it cans of tuna, but other than that they'd been flying well below the radar. They had a litter box that they cleaned frequently, and the cat seemed well groomed and taken care of. She almost wonders if she shouldn't just let them keep it, but that's not feasible. Then other kids will want cats, and some kids are allergic.

Everyone seemed to know about the cat besides her and Logan. Even Remy seemed to know. When she told him about it, he just smiled.

Now she tells Logan.

"You know, I thought I was hallucinating the smell of cat piss. Christ."

"Well, we're not keeping it," she says. "I'm holding off putting an ad on craigslist and trying to call people I know to see if someone will take it."

"Can't you just set it loose outside? It's a cat. I'm sure it'll find its way. Maybe it'll kill the mice in the annex."

She rubs her forehead and tries to ignore her own nervousness as it deepens in the pit of her stomach. "I've thought about it. But Jason and Hernan—you should have seen their faces. I promised that I'd find the cat a good home." She remembered how Jason had puffed up his chest to keep from crying. Apparently the cat had been sleeping with him each night in his bed. "The whole thing made me feel like crap, actually," she confesses. "I hate being the wicked headmistress who takes away children's pets."

He laughs a little. "If you're a wicked headmistress, then I'm the goddamn drill sergeant from _Full Metal Jacket_." He pauses. "Storm? Is everything alright?"

She needs to bring the call to a close as quickly as possible before the tone of her voice betrays her. Logan's picked a great time to get his intuition back. "Fine. I just want to know what the doctor has to say about Rogue. Promise me you'll take a lot of notes?"  
He says he will. He tells her that Rogue's nearly finished in the shower. Then he tells her to get a good night's sleep.

When she finishes the phone call, she walks the hallways, checking to make sure that everyone's lights are out and everyone's in bed. It seems that everyone is okay. (She hopes everything will be okay.) She makes her way down to the kitchen. Remy and Sadie are there having a little confab. She's sitting on the bench and he's stirring a cup of cocoa on the other side of the counter. "And I've never fallen while ice skating," she's saying.

"I have," he says.

She steps into the kitchen. "Sadie, what are you doing out of bed?"

Remy turns to look at her and mouths "nightmare."

"I had a bad dream," she says quietly, looking downward at the table. She looks like she might cry.

"And that's all it was, sweetie," Remy says, setting the plastic cup of cocoa in front of her. "Just a bad dream."

"A wolf was chasing me," she says.

"There are no wolves in New York," he says. "At least not anymore." He glances at Storm.

"Sadie," Storm says, "why don't you take your cocoa upstairs and drink it there? You can sit on the window seat before going back to bed." Sadie's too old to be coddled about bad dreams, she thinks. She needs to learn to just shake it off.

"Okay," she says. She slides from the bench and then pads into the hallway.

Remy's wiping off the counter and putting the milk away.

She watches him. She says, "I need you to cover for me tomorrow morning. I'm going to be out all day. I have a personal errand in the city. Kitty's coming to supervise my class, but I need you to make sure that things run smoothly in the morning. Can you do that?"

"Sure." He closes the refrigerator door and then turns to look at her. He spreads his hands over the counter. "Is everything okay, _chere_?"

Fine," she says. "I'll be back in the evening."

He stands there for a second, hands still on the counter, and then nods. "Alright. But is everything . . . _okay_?"

"Great," she says and turns to walk out of the kitchen and leaves him there beneath the lights.

###

That night she awakes every two hours until her alarm finally goes off at 5:30. She showers and puts on dark jeans and a comfortable button-down shirt and running shoes. She rarely dresses this casually around the mansion—and never to go to the city—but she needs to be comfortable. And her things aren't fitting as well as they usually do. She ignores how sick she feels—how shaky and awful—and checks to make sure that she has everything—purse, wallet, appointment card, money. She reaches for her coat.

Outside it's dark and cold, the sun only just thinking about coming up. She walks around to get her car from the garage when she sees Remy leaning against a pillar just outside of the door. He's smoking a cigarette. Jesus, he's up early. Then she wonders if he'd ever gone to bed. He has a hat on, a pair of gloves. When he sees her, he drops the cigarette.

"Aren't you cold?" she says, turning to look back at him.

He shrugs and looks down at his shoes. "I'm okay."

She walks back to stand near him so that they can talk. "Just make sure everything goes well until Kitty gets here. Can you do that?"

His hands are in his pockets. He nods slightly, eyes still cast downward. Then he looks up. Reaches over and grabs her upper arm. "Please don't go," he says.

She just stands there.

"Don't do this."

She slowly tries to pull her arm away from him, but he seems to want to hold on. "Remy." She tries to think of something to say. "I really have to go. I can't be late."

He lets go of her arm and brings the heel of his hand to his forehead. "I just can't wrap my mind around this, Storm." He glances back at her. "At least let me drive you. Jesus Christ. I can't stand the thought of you all alone in this."

"I need to be alone."

Without even realizing it, they've slipped into French. He speaks in dialect and she does not, but they understand each other. They always have.

She exhales and draws closer to him so that she's standing right next to him. "I don't have to tell you how complicated this all is."

"You love each other," he says. "That's all that matters."

He always wants to simplify everything. That's the way he's always been. It's something about him that drove Scott and Jean crazy—he wasn't detail-oriented the way they were. He was a big picture person. But sometimes details matter, and Remy often got sloppy.

Telling Remy LeBeau about the baby—and about the fact that she probably wasn't going to keep it—was not a good idea. But she had to tell someone, and he was there, and he'd sensed that something was up.

He's always been so sensitive. Logan should have been the one to notice, but Rogue's sudden illness distracted him.

Getting pregnant was an accident, and though she likes children and always has and understands their importance, she knows that the issue is far more complicated than her likes and secret desires. There's the school to think about. Her commitment to the kids she already has, the kids who have only her and nothing else. They need her. She's barely able to keep the school running as it is, and it's important that this place stays open.

But beyond that, there's Logan. Logan, who fronts, who protects. But who needs very much to be protected.

Remy just studies her.

She knows she doesn't need to explain, but she does anyway. "His mutation". The mutant gene is always passed down on the father's side, and so there's the question of whether or not the child will inherit his abilities. But that's not the half of it. There's a chance the child _won't_ inherit his abilities—or will inherit just one aspect of them or something different altogether—and will grow old, surpassing Logan in physical age and dying while Logan remains young. Just as she will grow old and die while he remains young.

"It's a gift," Remy says, and leaves it at that.

She crosses her arms. "There have been stories." She shakes her head in an attempt to shake away her tears. "Stories that hospitals are injecting babies of registered mutants with the cure the day that they're born. I just can't, Remy. I just can't. I can't take that chance."

"All hearsay," he says. "And we wouldn't let it happen even if it were true."

"It's just a bad time," she says. "A bad time out there. And we have the other children to look out for. They need us, you know."

But these are all excuses. The real reason lurks.

He walks with her to the car and opens the door for her. "I'll be here when you get back, Storm. You have any trouble—anything—you call me." He makes her promise. Then he closes the car door and touches the window with his gloved hand. She doesn't look back at him as she pulls out of the driveway.

###

She and Logan hooked up for the first time on a warm spring day that smelled like geraniums and fresh mulch. It was a Saturday, some ten months after Alcatraz. They both worked Saturdays—school was never out—but on this day she was taking it easy. Bobby and Kitty, just weeks shy of their graduation, had taken the kids to a horse show, and the few stragglers were occupying themselves with board games and basketball. She slipped out of the mansion. She was wearing jeans that day as well. The weather was beautiful and it seemed, for the first time in a long time, that things were going to be okay.

The winter had been tough. So many adjustments had to be made. Without Scott or the professor, the school had seemed skeletal and centerless during the long cold months. She'd always known that the professor's abilities had provided a pacifying atmosphere, and that his knowledge of what everyone was doing at any given time definitely prevented most discipline problems, but she wasn't prepared for the loneliness. For the dark winter, the empty study. Cerebro went unused. Kids' emotional problems went unchecked. She and Logan both got short and irritable with one another. They argued about disciplinary action when two teenagers were caught in various stages of undress in the broom closet. "Give me a break, Storm," he said, rolling his eyes when she told him she was suspending them for three days. "These kids are people too. Tell me that shit never went on when you were a student here."

"I know that it happens all the time, Logan," she said. "Don't accuse me of being naïve. But once you condone it or look the other way, it's a different matter altogether."

Then there was the matter of hiring new people to take the physics, composition, literature, Spanish, and science classes Scott and the professor had left behind. It was tough finding accredited teachers who were mutants or mutant-friendly and who didn't mind living in the middle of nowhere with kids who could see through walls and read minds and teleport from one room to the next. She hired mostly adjuncts. She wondered how the hell the school had once run so effortlessly.

She and Logan seemed to disagree about everything at that point. If she wanted to train the kids for an hour in the danger room, he advocated for two hours. Overnight he'd gone from a guy who crept around the mansion and helped the professor with oddball projects to the go-to person. A total workaholic. No, she was a workaholic—Logan was a maniac. He walked the halls at night as a makeshift security guard, got everyone going in the morning, supervised gym class and coached basketball, oversaw the art lab, and scheduled various field trips. And then there were the expense reports, the food and supplies purchases, and the inventory. When did he find time to do this? She had no idea. She knew he was putting time and activities between him and Alcatraz—between himself and the death of Jean.

(She's asked him about what had happened with Jean at Alcatraz, but he was silent about the subject. She knew only what she'd seen and what she could conclude. She'd found him clutching Jean, crying over her body, the puncture wounds in her abdomen. He hadn't wanted to talk about it. He said he never wanted to talk about it, and she never asked about it again.)

But he was really good about other things. Like when the tadpoles died. The youngest kids—the fourth- and fifth- and sixth-graders—had been working on a science project with a tank-full of tadpoles, charting their development and waiting until they turned into frogs. Jean had always been really fond of this. Every spring she'd take the kids and their newly developed frogs to a nearby watershed and get everyone to release them back into their natural habitat. A real tradition. They always had a little picnic afterwards.

Then, one early spring weekend, someone shut the door to the science lab and it got unusually warm outside. And stuffy inside, too, because the heat was still on. No one thought about the tadpoles. And then there was a lightening storm and the power went out, and the pump on the tank died for several hours and didn't come back on when the power was restored. When the kids walked into the lab on Monday morning, the whole place smelled like dead fish.

There were tears, of course. Lots of kids who needed to be comforted. Logan didn't even blink when he walked into the room and saw everyone crying, and Storm knew that he _hated_ crying—couldn't handle it, didn't see the need for it, didn't understand it at all. But he just reassured everyone. He told them he'd get new tadpoles—they were a dime a dozen this time of year, really. Then he removed the tank from the room.

"What did you do with the dead tadpoles?" she asked him later, after dinner.

"The toilet in the boys' bathroom is a pretty nice place for a frog funeral as it turns out."

On this particular Saturday when the kids were out with Bobby and Kitty or otherwise occupied, Storm found Logan on the edge of campus spray painting a fence. This was the other thing he did—he kept on top of the grounds and the landscaping. His weekend work. He seemed to really enjoy it.

He was singing. " _You're a rich girl, and you've gone too far 'cause you know it don't matter anyway . . ._ "

He heard her approach—he must have—but he didn't stop singing. " _You can rely on the old man's money, you can rely on the old man's money . . ._ "

She stepped out from behind the fence. He glanced over at her and quieted down. "Don't let me interrupt," she said.

"I was finished," he said.

"I never would have pegged you for a Hall and Oates fan."

He stopped spraying and glanced over at her. "What would you peg me for?"

She thought. "Springsteen maybe. Early Elton John."

He put the can on the ground and turned to face her. He did a half-shrug. "Billie Holiday," he said. "Now let me play this game with you. Hmm, based on your age I'm guessing early Michael Jackson."

She tried to hide her smile. 

"Damn, I hit it right on the nose, didn't I?" He turned around. She figured he'd go back to spray painting, but instead he surprised her by lowering himself onto the grass, his legs crossed in front of him. She sat down as well, facing him. "I thought you were Rogue. She always sneaks out here to keep me company. If she's around."

"Ah," Storm said. She didn't like to talk about Rogue if she could help it. The whole cure thing was still too fresh.

"The kids are still out?" he asked. She nodded. "Good," he said. He gave her a rare smile.

"I've been meaning to tell you," she said, "that you did a great job with that Sheldon thing. You averted what could have been a disaster."

"Yeah," he said, thoughtful for a second. "I didn't really know what I was doing. I hope they don't figure that out."

"He has a crush on you," she said. "He so wants to please you." She smiled. "I caught him drawing a picture of you in history class. Claws and everything."  
Logan looked up at her. "I've never shown the kids my claws."

"Yeah, well, word gets around. No secrets here."

Sheldon had been a bit of a problem since he arrived at the mansion the year before. He was twelve and the resident fat kid. For this he got teased. He also got teased because of his mutation: he could eat and digest pretty much anything. Cardboard, wood, bricks, textiles, you name it. He usually _didn't_ go around eating these things, much to his credit, but he ate a lot of food. And so he was heavy. The jokes pretty much wrote themselves.

Two sixth-grade girls in particular, Swathi and Rebecca, had been the primary teasers. They started a rumor that Sheldon drank a bottle of nail polish remover, ate the plastic bottle, and then threw it up on the hamster. (Sheldon, by the way, does not throw up. Ever.) They even made up a song and sang it several times a day—in the bathroom, on the way to the kitchen, in the rec room. Storm had caught them and given them a lecture. Still, it got worse. Eventually Sheldon just had enough. He ate Swathi's curling iron and Rebecca's biome project—a shoebox diorama of a deciduous forest complete with spongy little trees and plastic animals and shiny cellophane paper streams.

Swathi and Rebecca went nuts. They flipped. They declared all-out war on Sheldon. They were marshaling the troops—getting ready to soak his sheets and delete his hard drive and fill his shoes with shaving cream and all this nasty shit when Logan got wind of it. (He must have overheard them chattering.) He took Sheldon, Swathi, and Rebecca out of class and sat them all down in the professor's study. Storm was in the adjoining room but she didn't come in. She let Logan handle it. She knew he wanted her to take over, to do the whole headmistress thing—be the disciplinarian—but she wasn't budging. Logan had never wanted to be a teacher, but he'd ended up one anyway. He needed to step up.

First, he meted out punishment. Detentions for all of them. He told Sheldon that he needed to help Rebecca redo her biome project. So far so good. Then he did the feelings thing—asked each of them how they'd feel if someone did this to them. And made them articulate it. Okay, a little predictable, but fair enough.

Then he started to spin things differently. Talked about mutant kids growing up on the outside who had no one, who had to go to public schools and deal with ridicule from all sides—parents, classmates, teachers, garbage men, et cetera. How did they think _that_ felt? Silence. Then he asked them why normal human beings should bother treating them with respect when they couldn't even respect each other. When they couldn't even treat _themselves_ with respect. "I'm not looking for a love-in here. I'm not telling you to be best friends. I'm telling you to have some dignity. If you don't, you give the whole world permission to treat you however they want. There are people out there who hate you simply because you are alive. You're old enough to understand this by now. I don't have to sugarcoat it for you."

Silence. Then, finally, Swathi sniffled and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "We're sorry, Mr. Logan."

"Fine. Whatever." Then he seemed to remember himself—to remember what he was supposed to be doing "Just make sure it doesn't happen again." He stood up and walked to the door and opened it. The kids filed back to class.

Now Sheldon was a little bit in love with Logan, and Logan was helping him perfect his free-throw and giving him advice about what shoes were good for playing basketball.

"I wonder what the future holds for him," Storm said as she sat on the grass.

"He's going to be okay," Logan said. "In the next few years his balls will drop and he'll discover girls and it'll give him an incentive to work off the weight. He'll be one of those people who won't even remember that he was a fat kid." Logan leaned back on his hands. "He ate a biome, though." He laughed.

She laughed too. They both just looked at each other and laughed. Then they stopped laughing. Just looked at each other. (Finally.) Logan scooted around so that he was sitting next to her. Then, he reached over and brushed her hair out of her eyes. She leaned toward him and they kissed. Almost chaste, but not quite. Very sweet. She was surprised that there was no awkwardness—only because these moments always engender a lot of awkwardness. They finished kissing and stood up and walked back towards the mansion hand-in-hand. When they rounded the corner and were in full view of the windows, they separated.

That night they ate a small informal dinner with the kids who hadn't gone to the horse show. After dinner she sat at a table in the rec room and tutored a kid who had stayed behind because his French grade was dipping below average. She went through some conjugations with him and caught Logan looking at her from across the room. He was sitting in the chair with the TV on, but his eyes were focused on her. The nature of his gaze was hard to pin down. It wasn't desirous or possessive or even curious. It was mostly thoughtful. Like he was just thinking about her. She looked over at him and smiled.

So that night he showed up at her bedroom door. She opened the door to find him leaning against the frame. "Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Sure," she said, opening the door wide to let him in. He came in and shut the door behind him. And they were kissing again—this time not so chaste—and their clothes fell away, and they found the bed, and that was that. It was kind of furious and quick, over before they really had the chance to think about it. Not rough, not exactly. Quiet and straightforward. Afterwards he told her he should probably go back to his own bed—the kids were around, after all—and kissed her goodnight.

The next day she wasn't exactly regretful. But she felt that she should have been. In fact, she was surprised that she didn't have more remorse. She hadn't slept with a coworker or teammate in a long time—and had been burned enough to know that these things didn't turn out well—but with Logan it felt a little different. Maybe it felt different because there was no one else around to judge them. They were two consenting adults who could do whatever the fuck they wanted, no mind reading meddlers to gimp things up.

So, Sunday morning. It was always a busy morning. They had to make various travel arrangements for the kids who had religious obligations. Storm got up early and showered and dressed and went to get coffee. She was surprised to find Logan sitting on the stairs looking like he hadn't slept. "Good morning," she said.

He looked up at her. "Hey," he said, more quietly.

"Are you—?"

He stood up and glanced around him. Took a good listen. No one was there. "About last night," he began. The three words that strike terror into most people's hearts.

"No worries," she said, shrugging. "It was fun but we probably shouldn't do it again." She studied his face for any kind of reaction but she couldn't pick up on anything. No resentment or insecurity or relief.

Then he shook his head and smiled. Then, got serious. "Okay. Sounds like a plan."

She nodded and moved past him. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"I'm fine," he said.

And he was. And so was she. They were both fine for a while. Until later that week when she stumbled across him in the kitchen. He was changing the water filter and his hair was slightly messy and his shirt was hanging open and he just looked so, well, good. This is what she would have told Jean—he just looked so damn good. God, she longed for Jean during moments like this. She loved to describe sex, going into explicit details—where it happened, how long it took, what was said, what exact techniques were used, who came first and how many times, all that good stuff. Jean just used to laugh. She wasn't prudish—Storm got the impression that Jean actually enjoyed these monologues—but about her sex life with Scott she was somewhat tightlipped. Storm suspected that they were either completely boring or both closeted freaks.

So when it happened the third time they stopped apologizing to each other. Just learned to go with it. And about a month in, he got attached. Not that she didn't—she did. She'd just been trying to hide that piece of herself from him.

"It's hard," he told her one night after they'd made love. He was propped up on his elbow and reaching over to touch her hair. "It's hard to get close to people. I mean, long term."

She nodded at him. She knew he meant his mutation.

And then he said something heartbreaking: "I don't know who I am." He flopped onto his back.

She rolled over so that she was pressed against him. "You know who you are." Ran her fingers along his ribcage. "I know who you are. Your past isn't what defines you."

"That's easy for you to say," he said, but without any trace of resentment. He looked at the ceiling. "When you don't know what's missing, you could spend all your life trying to find it. Stryker." He closed his eyes. "When we were at Alkali Lake, he said something to me. He said we'd worked together. That I'd always been an animal."

She leaned her head against his chest. "Bullshit," she whispered.

He ran his fingers through her hair. "I guess I'll never know."

"I know," she said, turning to look at him. "I know, and I'm telling you that it's bullshit. I just wish that you would know."

He grabbed her hand and closed his eyes. She wanted him to fall asleep. She wished he would just spend the night for once. She wanted to wake up next to him, and the conjugal visit thing made her feel like they were sneaking around. He told her that he couldn't trust himself not to hurt her in his sleep. So he slipped off to his own room.

But he left his cell phone behind. She didn't think anything of it until the next morning when she was getting ready for work. She picked it up and flipped it open. Scrolled through his contacts. (He had only a few contacts.) Felt guilty for a minute. But she somehow knew that he wouldn't mind. She wasn't snooping or anything. She found the name she was looking for and pressed send.

The phone rang. Then: " _Mon ami_ , last night I was watching these two guys absolutely shred each other in a bar fight and I thought of you. So how the fuck are you? They still have your balls in a vice up in Westchester?"

She pulled the phone from her ear for a second and stared at it. Then she brought it back. "It's Storm," she said.

"Storm!" Remy exclaimed. "How are you?" Then: "Why are you calling from Logan's phone?"

This was a good question. Better question: Why was she calling? At all? "I just thought I'd say hi."

Long, awkward pause. She decided to fill it. "We haven't heard from you in a while. Is everything okay?"

"Better than okay, _chere_. I got a fresh start this year." He paused and lowered his voice. "Awfully sorry about all that shit that went down last year. The professor. Summers." He cleared his throat. "Alcatraz."

"I was surprised you never called," she said.

He let out what sounded like a big sigh. "Didn't even know about it until afterwards. Rehab."

"What was it this time? Cocaine?"

"At least it wasn't meth."

She shook her head. "Jesus Christ, Remy."

"But I'm great now. Done with that." He made a noise that sounded like a quick laugh. "I go to meetin's and everything. I don't think there's anymore I _can_ do. And the IRS finally caught up with me. Froze every goddamn last asset. But I came up from nothing once before. I'll just do it again. Ain't never gone hungry."

She paced in the small room next to the bed. "So what are you doing?"

"Private consulting. I live in Baton Rouge now. Dull as fuck, but it keeps me out of trouble."

Suddenly she was aware that she had a huge headache. She didn't know why she had made this call. It was a bad idea. Remy was a fucking catastrophe. It would have been depressing if he hadn't been so hilarious about it, so devil-may-care. Among the X-Men there had always been a lot of blame tossed around, a lot of self-blame, and a lot of guilt. Too many arguments. Scott and Jean blamed themselves for letting Remy get too involved in undercover life all those years ago. The professor had warned them all along that it was a bad idea. The only one who seemed not to care was Remy. He just moved on.

"You saw Hank was named ambassador?" she said.

"Fuckin' A," he said. "I knew Old Blue had it in him."

"You should come up to stay here sometime," she said. "You know, I want to give you some of Scott's things. Some things he wanted you to have."

There was silence. Then: "Oh yeah. Sure."

She moved to look out the window. In the vapory morning three kids were sitting on the basketball court playing cards. It was summer now and many of the students had gone home or someplace else. The ones who stayed were the runaways and the castaways. The very troubled. Still, fewer kids meant less work. More time to spend with Logan. More time to think about things. Like whatever had happened to Remy LeBeau.

"Near the end of his life," she said, "Scott was a different person. But he was still very fond of you. Talked about you all the time. I just thought you should know that."

He waited a beat. "Thanks, Storm. Means a lot."

"Come up to see us," she said. "You're always welcome here."

Now they were just saying things. The morning was unfolding before them, a bright summer morning, and they were talking on the phone, just niceties. She wondered why he was up so early. Wondered if he'd even gone to bed. (Wondered if the coke rehab thing wasn't just bullshit.) With Remy, everything was always uncertain, but nothing was ever intentionally dangerous.


	18. Chapter 18

Remy had told Scott that something big was about to go down, and he meant it. After he'd cleared DeFrees of any wrongdoing, he'd managed to pull some other things together, some pictures. He needed to figure out why Dom Petros and Kevin Tremain had been talking together outside of the Hellfire Club. He also needed to confirm the rumors about whether or not Mortimer Toynbee was really in town.

But first he needed to take a shower and develop his film. His stint as a homeless dude in New York had left him feeling pretty rancid. So after he got that over with—after he showered and shaved and put on fresh clothes—he went into the darkroom to develop the photos he'd taken.

A year and a half with the X-Men and he was getting to know the Brotherhood's major players. He had a flowchart and a whole mess of notes. Sooner or later he'd have to make contact. It was something about which he'd been talking to Scott and the professor. Hanging on the sidelines snapping pictures was fine, but Remy knew he'd be a lot more useful if he was inside. If he could chat these folks up, play them a little. Scott agreed. But the professor? He was more reticent. "I know you feel like you could do a lot more if you could get closer," he said to Remy during one of their "sessions," "but rushing things could put you at a disadvantage. And us, too."

Well, that was bullshit. Time was wasting, and Remy was getting impatient.

Thing was, the professor just didn't trust him.

Remy knew that's what the hold-up was about. And it pissed him off. He'd done everything they'd asked of him—cut ties with his people, turned over new informants, quit gambling (most of the time), camped out in Central Park smelling like horse dung. (No silk shirts or polished boots.) And yet, something about him still put the professor on alert. The man didn't have to say anything—Remy could read it all over his body language. Dude might have been a mind reader, but he was a lousy bluffer.

He wondered what the hang-up was. The Morlock thing? Probably. That was fair. Or perhaps the professor was reluctant because Gambit was still so new. And he'd been a felon. He hadn't grown up in the mansion. He hadn't had his rough spots smoothed out by a fancy education—not that you could tell, though—he always got the best table in a restaurant.

Perhaps it was because he wouldn't talk. He'd given the professor the details about his life—LeBeau crime family syndicate, his failed marriage, his roving years, his stay at Three Mile Island, his deal with Stryker—but these things were all just sketches and outlines. The professor wanted to know what these things meant for Remy. And Remy wasn't going there. Not even with a mind reader.

(And certain memories—Dan, for instance—were too precious to invoke in these surroundings. So, that was that.)

He watched as the film developed and smoked his way through half a pack of cigarettes. While he was hanging the photos on the line, he heard the door open slowly. Someone stepped into the room and shut the door. He smirked to himself. Storm.

"You were gone for a long time," she said.

"Jus' two days, honey," he said, studying the picture he'd just hung, hands on his hips. He turned to look at her.

"What did you find out?"

He pulled the picture down. "Well, DeFrees ain't our guy, much to Summers's chagrin. But I got pictures of Alvers and Tremain together outside the Hellfire Club."

She took the photo in her hand. "Holy fuck," she whispered. She then studied the other pictures. "How the hell did you get close enough to take these?"

He said nothing. Then he said: "I can get even closer, I bet. And put this in your pipe and smoke it, baby. I heard a rumor that Toynbee's in town."

She looked up, alarmed. "Did you tell that to Scott?"

"Nah. Thought I'd develop these first and then take them in to Scott and the professor. See what kind of a read they get." He took the picture from her and pinned it up again. "But if it's true, then this is some kind of perfect shit storm. I'd bet Scotty's Wang Chung tapes that this is nothing to sneeze at."

He sat back down at the desk and lit another cigarette. She came over and sat on the desk. Ran a hand through his hair, which was still damp from the shower. She took the cigarette from his fingers and brought it to her own lips. She blew out a thin line of smoke. "I missed you."

"Missed you too, girl." He looked down at the desk and laughed. "Oh God," he sighed. Last time they'd had sex, it had been on this desk.

She studied him, amused. "I just want to say something." She took a puff of the cigarette. "If I ever find out that you use these furloughs to sleep with normal women, I'll kill you."

He looked up and into her eyes. Put on his best poker face ever. "What about mutant women?"

She scooted up so that she was sitting entirely on the desk, her legs dangling off the side. (Subtlety was not her strong suit.) She slipped her shoes off and swung one leg over so that her foot grazed his lap. She was wearing a skirt and black tights—something he found corny, but he appreciated the effort. Jean must have told her he'd come home. "Then I'd just want all the details."

He leaned back in his chair. "Now that's just bad manners."

"Really?" She reached over and tugged on his shirt collar.

"Baby. You know you're the only one."

She put the cigarette down in the ashtray but didn't snuff it out. Got up from the desk and pulled him up from the chair. Then, pushed him onto the floor.

Her seductions were always so indelicate.

She was the most aggressive girl—make that person—he'd ever been with. And believe this: she wasn't something he'd planned. He hadn't walked into the mansion that first day and said, "Yeah, I'll take that one." She was attractive as hell, but she wasn't really his type. At least not for any long-term thing.

First of all, she was a little young. Not that he couldn't handle that—he didn't discriminate based on age, race, sexual orientation, religion or creed, veteran status, mutation, or any combination of the above—but her tenacity for her life and her youth were both disconcerting and heartbreaking. Disconcerting, because whenever they tried to have a conversation about anything other than X-Men shit, she inevitably talked about her students and the trials and travails of first-year teaching. Or she talked about funny things that had happened to her in college. (She did not ever, ever, ever talk about her formative years--her childhood in Africa. He'd learned everything he knew about her from Jean.) Heartbreaking, because she reminded him of Dan at twenty-three, his eagerness for his new life at grad school, his excitement about traveling and meeting new people. And all of that had been fun the first time, when he was doing it with Dan ten years ago—but with Storm it felt like a rehash. Like a big trip down memory lane. And then, a bummer.

Second, he usually made a point of only screwing women who didn't know his address. Storm knew where he lived and breathed.

Third, she liked it rough. And he didn't. Oh sure, he could handle what she gave him and serve it up with a smile, but rough sex wasn't really his cup of tea. Dan had been aggressive at times, but he'd also been tender. And passionate. And never rough. More urgent than rough. That's what this girl needed to learn—how to be both urgent and gentle. She had some growing up to do, and he didn't think he'd be able to wait around. And he wasn't going to be her tutor—God no. He wanted to get laid, not hold a seminar.

Now she was pulling at his clothes. He reached up to undo his shirt so that she wouldn't rip off his buttons. He had taken too much time sewing these buttons back on after last time. She pushed him down so that he was flat on his back. Then, straddled him.

He knew the whole tawdry affair going to get messy the first time they'd had sex. He'd felt like a conquest—like her big fucking prize—but she'd probably be the one who'd get hurt. He'd inevitably come home smelling like someone else's Sea Breeze and all hell would break loose. He had the feeling that he was her first mutant boyfriend. And during his time at the mansion, he'd figured out that there was some weird dynamic between Cyclops and Jean and Storm. Not exactly jealousy, but something close. Scott and Jean were Xavier's golden children, and they loved each other and had this beautiful little courtship, and Storm had to look in from the outside. Then Remy showed up and evened things out a little—I mean, let's be honest, that Hank guy wasn't anybody's idea of boyfriend material—and the seduction script just wrote itself.

Now she was opening his belt buckle and simultaneously pulling off her own tights. It was sort of hilarious, like watching someone pat her head and rub her stomach at the same time. He tried not to laugh. (She got pissed when he laughed. She got rougher than usual.)

For her graduation, he'd given her a messy roll of bills. (Seriously.) He'd slipped away to play poker that week and came in with a right nice haul. Stuffed it in an envelope and gave it to her, no card or anything. She acted like it was the best gift she'd ever gotten. Jean had gotten her tickets to _Cats_ (they all went to see it together; that was rough), and Scott had gotten her some ski gear, but she acted as though Remy's cash saved goddamn Christmas. 

She'd already slipped him inside of her. He tried not to groan as he gripped her torso. She didn't like the fact that he held back. She ran her nails along his side. Bent down and closed her mouth over his nipple. Then, worked her way up to his collar bone and used her teeth.

 _Mon Dieu_ , she was always doing that. He had bruises from where she pinched him, welts from where she broke his skin. (On her he never left a mark. He liked to think that he never left a mark on anybody without meaning to.) One day, he met Summers at the lake for a late afternoon swim. When he pulled off his shirt to jump in, Scott just looked at him. "Jesus Christ, LeBeau. I was going to ask if you did that in the danger room, but I know better."

He looked down at himself. There were bite marks below both nipples and scratches along his abdomen and shoulders.

"Just be careful with her, okay?" he said. He was considering Remy through a pair of goggles.

"Me? She's the one you need to be talkin' to."

"She acts like a bitch, but she's very sensitive." He reached for a bottle of sunscreen. He liked to get a tan, but Jean had been lecturing him about skin cancer. "She's hasn't had it easy."

Who among them had?

"I mean, really LeBeau." He straightened up and looked Remy right in the face. "She's like a sister to me. I should kick your ass."

At least Jean never said anything—about _anything_. (And she knew all about him, too.)

He gripped Storm's stomach, watched her muscles jump. She was going to come soon. He needed to be paying attention, but—this was the thing—he could do nothing but think of Dan. (Talk about bad manners.) Thank God Storm wasn't a mind reader because he spent most of their times thinking back to times he'd had with Dan. The mornings. The first time Dan had pulled out of his mouth and come on his stomach, and how it had seemed so miraculous at the time, so definite. Like everything they did was something just for them.

He'd get her to come twice. He always did. (Not to brag.) She came while she was on top and he flipped her over on her back. Felt her dig her heels into his back. Now he held her hands over her head so that she couldn't scratch him anymore, but he got the feeling that she thought it was some kinky bondage thing. After a few minutes, she came again and he followed. When they were both finished, he rolled off of her. She was already on her feet by the time he'd managed to refocus his eyes. Goddamn youth. He was still in his early thirties, but she made him feel old.

In the dark light, he could see that her skirt was back in place. She balled her tights in her hand and took his cigarette, still smoldering, from the ash tray. Puffed once. Slipped her shoes back on. "That floor's kind of uncomfortable," she said.

He turned his head to the side. Focused on his open hand as it lay next to his face.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Just tired," he said.

"You must be. But damn, Remy," she said. "Damn." She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. "Have fun talking to Scott and the professor. I'd love to know how that goes." She opened the door. He felt the small knife of light as it lit his face and then disappeared.

###

At times like this, Remy always wondered how much the professor knew. He walked into the study with Storm and sex all over him. Certainly the professor did not approve of these activities. Here Remy was, trying to gain the guy's trust, and instead of proving himself trustworthy he was banging a barely-out-of-college teammate on the floor of the darkroom. And now he needed to make the case that he was ready to crack Magneto's organization. Yeah, right.

He and Scott sat next to each other in front of the professor's desk. He showed them the pictures. Scott studied them carefully and handed them to the professor. They exchanged glances.

"What else?" the professor said.

"Heard that Toynbee's back from England. Just a rumor, but it's a rumor that's pickin' up steam. Whatever they're planning, it's got to be something big."

The professor nodded. "I'll use Cerebro to try to locate him."

"If he's in town," Scott said, "we should try to pick him up. See what he has to say. The authorities have had it out for him for a long time."

The professor started to agree but Remy spoke. "I don't—I don't think that's a good idea. Maybe it's best to see this through another way." He cleared his throat. "Let me approach them."

Scott shifted in his chair. Remy read the signal—Scott was open to the idea.

But the professor was not. "No, I don't think that's wise, Remy. Not at this point. And Toad is a very dangerous man. They're all dangerous."

He leaned forward. "I can do this, professor. They'll never see me comin'."

Scott was resting his head against his hand. He inhaled. "Remy, the last thing we need is for you to go get yourself killed." He paused. "And if something _is_ going to happen, we need you. With us. Fighting alongside us."

Remy closed his eyes. Then opened them again and looked at the professor. "I can get you more than just pictures. I can figure out what these cats are up to. But I've got to go all in." He paused. "I could be so much more useful to you living among them."

The professor held up his hand. "I'm sorry Remy, but not at this time. It's too dangerous and you're simply not ready. You think you can bluff your way to Magneto, but you'd be one mind reader away from getting killed. Or worse. We can't take that risk right now."

Remy felt deflated. No, the professor did not trust him. It wasn't that Xavier felt he couldn't do it—it was that he doubted Remy's ability to find his way back. But at least he'd gotten the final word now. He'd probably spend the next four years covered in pigeon shit, watching things go down from the outside.

He said, "At least let me try to get a sit-down with Cassidy tomorrow. I've heard that nothin' goes down in the Village without him knowin' about it. You can use Cerebro to find Toad, but you won't really know what's up until we can get the inside word."

The professor looked at Scott. And then back at Remy. "Also a dangerous man. Scott, you go with him. Take Storm." He looked at both of them. "Be careful."

Outside of the study, Scott grabbed his arm. "Nice work," he said.

Remy nodded. He wouldn't say "thanks"—not to Scott. The only thing worse than Scott's criticism was his praise. Last thing he needed was approval from a twenty-four-year-old Spanish teacher wearing an Echo and the Bunnymen tee-shirt.

But his resentment was perhaps a bit ungenerous. Scott, after all, trusted Remy. One day when they were swimming in the lake together, Scott, who was floating on his back, said, "You know, you're very fortunate. The professor believes in you." Remy treaded water for few seconds. Then he said, "No, that's you, Scott."

Now Scott said, "I need your help with something." He nodded to the kitchen. Remy followed him there.

Remy could hear the kids playing down the hall and outside. From them he kept his distance. It was easy—he was never around. But the whole childcare thing really wasn't for him. He was too bent on getting close to Magneto. It was becoming an obsession. One afternoon Storm and Jean asked if he'd like to join them and a bunch of the kids at the swimming hole and he'd declined. He'd stayed home and puzzled over his notes.

In the kitchen they were alone. Scott sat him down at the table. "Totally off the record."

He nodded. Wondered why Scott even thought he needed to clarify that with Remy.

"I mean," Scott said, "that the professor can't even know. Or even Jean, though I might tell her later."

"Won't they know anyway?" he said.

"Not necessarily." He paused. "If they don't know what they're looking for, then they often times just don't look. And most of the time they try not to snoop around." He reached into his back pocket and took out a picture and set it on the table.

Remy studied it. Just another youthful face, a kid with cut features and a firm jaw. One of the disappeared, he guessed.

"I need you to find this guy," Scott said. "He's my brother. Name's Alex." He touched the photograph again. "When our parents died we were separated. But I need to see him again."

Remy took the photograph. "I'll see what I can do." Scott was holding out on him. Why not just ask the professor? Why the big secret powwow? But Remy knew better than to ask. Scott was asking him a personal favor. As a friend. Something between two mutants. Something that couldn't be quantified or paid back. Like trust. He smiled at Scott and tucked the picture in his back pocket and went to go get some rest.


	19. Chapter 19

Storm lied when she told Remy she couldn't be late. Her appointment is for the early afternoon; she'll have plenty of time to spare. She leaves the car and takes a commuter train into the city. (She knows that when this is done she won't be able to navigate traffic on the way home.) Then finds a café where she can sit and think for a while. Steel herself. She's been there for four hours and all she's had is a bottle of water. She's surprised that the staff hasn't kicked her out for loitering; perhaps they sense that her quiet devastation is about to break open. Even in a city as unfriendly as New York, people seem to sense the energy of those around them.

Storm also lied to herself. She'd been lying to herself all year. She lied when she believed that she was strong enough to lose her people again. She saw what happened to Scott and Jean, after all.

She needs to see Logan through this Rogue thing and then send him on his way. He'll never know. Remy won't say anything. Remy is a lot of things, but he's not indiscreet. You can trust him with your secrets. Always. Even if he can't trust you.

She's trying hard not to think about Logan, about the last two years and how fast the time has gone by, how normal the days have been—the summer days by the pond, the afternoons in the danger room. The morning they made the baby could have been any morning except that it wasn't—she was so sick in love with him by that time that she was careless. She let herself believe that things would always be okay, that they'd be together for a long time, that neither of them would ever get hurt.

But she's not thinking of Logan. She's thinking of Scott.

Scott had disappeared up at Alkali Lake, and his body was never recovered. But he'd disappeared before that. After Jean's death, he was different. They were all different, but Scott was a strange kind of shattered. Even when he went back to work—even when he taught the kids and worked on his car and ran through the occasional simulation—he wasn't really there anymore. There was something about him that was hollowed and dark, the loss clinging to him like a pinned shirt.

And she could do nothing about it. She had given up. And she had no right to do this. Scott, after all, had never given up on her.

During college they shared an apartment together, a small place in the city that they couldn't really afford. He slept there during the day and went to see Jean at night. She spent most of her days in the library—trying to concentrate, trying to get things done—and came home to sleep. They didn't see each other that much that year. Storm thought this was normal—they were growing up and moving on.

Jean and Scott were technically over. "Technically" meant that they didn't go out on dates together or call themselves a couple but still slept with each other at least twice a week (twice that Storm knew about, anyway—she suspected that was a conservative estimate). They'd broken up a couple of years ago because Jean wanted to see other people. Then they'd gotten back together over the summer. Then they'd broken up again. Now they were just friends. Who happened to fuck a lot.

So when afternoon, when she returned to the apartment to find Scott, she was surprised to find him on the sofa, shoes off, sitting cross-legged and looking very serious. Scott usually looked serious—even though he wasn't—but on this day she could tell that something was up.

"Hey," she said.

He studied her through his glasses. "Where were you, Ororo?"

She spun on her heels and headed for the refrigerator. "What are you talking about?" she said, but she knew.

He got up from the sofa and made his way across the room, socks shuffling against the carpet. "I dropped by your anthropology class. You weren't there."

"I had a doctor's appointment." She took a gallon of juice from the refrigerator. Thought about getting annoyed. It wasn't like Scott to take such an interest in her whereabouts—usually he was so wrapped up in Jean.

He nodded. "I went to your Tudors and Stuarts class yesterday. You weren't there, either."

She looked up. "What the fuck, Scott. If you want to ask me something," she said, dropping the gallon on the counter, "then just ask it."

"Where do you go?"

That was a good question. On Monday she had just ridden the subway around the city. But on Tuesday and Wednesday, she had gone to the top floor of the library and looked out over the city and into the skyscrapers. There were too many buildings around to really see the sky, and she hadn't seen the sky in a while—the great big African sky with its green-blue tint and its bright orange dawn. People in North America didn't know dawn.

"Around," she said.

"You're thinking of dropping out," he said.

"I'm weighing my options."

Scott slumped against the counter. "Ororo."

"What?" She stared at him. Then she turned away. "College just isn't for me. It's just not a good idea."

"How could you say that?"

She wandered into the other room.

"What are you going to do?"

"Get a job. Don't worry, I'll still work with you guys."

"That's not what I'm worried about. Look—" Scott said. He ran a hand through his hair. "How long has it been since you've been to class?"

She swallowed. "Three weeks." She sat down on the sofa.

Scott didn't say anything. He just came over and sat next to her. "Give me the contact information for your professors. I'll call them."

"Scott—"

"We'll get Jean to get one of her doctor friends to write you up a little note saying that you've been indisposed."

She closed her eyes and sat back. "It's my choice, Scott."

"You are not dropping out of college," he said. "Ororo, you are not dropping out of college because of that Morlock girl."

Her eyes flew open. Her stomach tightened.

"It wasn't your fault," he said. "We've been through this."

She said nothing.

"I don't know why you won't talk to the professor about it."

Inside, she felt something shift. Quake open. "He doesn't understand."

"I think he does. But if you feel that way, you can always talk to me." He drew closer to her.

Two months before, she and Scott and Jean had out. They hadn't been on duty (back then, they weren't yet "on duty" all the time), but had instead been revving up for an average night on the town, a casual thing, just a few drinks before the weekend. They'd been standing in line to get in some place (nowhere special), when Jean whirled around. Ororo just caught the glint in her eyes, the stillness of her face. And when a strange-looking figure—a girl—came toward the line of people, a gun in her hand leveled at the crowd, shouting something about Morlocks, about the massacre that had taken place ten years before, someone screamed, and what happened, happened, and couldn't have happened any other way.

What she had done? She would do it again. She would do it over and over again if it meant protecting Scott and Jean. And maybe that's what scared her: that there wasn't more guilt.

Now she looked up at Scott. "I just want to go home. I just have these fantasies about going home. All the time."

Her hands were in her lap. He reached out and pressed his against hers. "I know."

"I just want someone to talk to. I want—my parents." She took a deep breath.

"You know I know," he said. And he knew so much. And they just sat there for a while, and neither of them said anything, and she remembered what Scott had once told her—years ago—about how he'd escaped from some mutant experimentation facility, and how he'd done just about anything to get out. But now he was just there with her. And the weakness passed, and with it the long moments of uncertainty. And she did what he always did: she put away unpleasantness. Went forward into her life. He called her professors, and she was able to make up the missed work.

So then it was: years and years later, after Alkali Lake. She was angry with him at first—angry with how he'd retreated from life. She'd go into the room he shared with Jean and just yell at him, cajole. Try to get his ass moving. Say things like, "You're not the only one who lost somebody. Jean was my best friend."  
God, she missed him. They'd been close. Logan had accused her of enabling, but he didn't know. (She forgave Logan for that, but it took a while.)

One Friday evening she wandered up to Scott's room and knocked on the door. He opened. They chatted for a minute, they talked. He invited her in. They were very civil, very amicable. This was how it went anymore. Scott had bad days and less bad days—but he seemed to be done grieving. His mind was a someplace else. His mind was back before Alkali Lake, maybe back before Liberty Island. Maybe back to the late '80s and early '90s when they were young and strong and didn't know what it was to lose.

Scott's bed was unmade, of course, and his clothes and books were scattered around the room. He had a stack of novels on the table, and she remembered something about the fact that the professor had promised that he could start to take over the literature classes. But that was before Jean died. Years and years before, he had given Jean a book, a fancy first edition of a Garcia Márquez novel, and in the inside cover he had written _tienes la llave de mi corazón_.

His room smelled like carbon dioxide and just plain living. Like it hadn't been aired out or cleaned in a while. But he invited her in anyway. She pushed a stack of papers aside so that she could sit on the chair, and he sat at the end of his bed. They talked. They talked about ho-hum, inconsequential things—the NBA playoffs, for example. What had been happening around the mansion. She told him that Logan had taken apart a scooter to show something to the mechanics class and he hadn't been able to put it back together. She could tell that Scott was rolling his eyes behind his glasses. "He's such an asshole."

"He's not an asshole. He's actually trying."

"Yeah." Scott rubbed his knuckles together. Cracked them. Then he said, "I'm going to pick up where I left off next week."

"Oh," she said, feigning pleasant surprise. They'd had this discussion before. "You'll have to fight for gym class. Logan's really getting into it. He's teaching self defense and survival techniques. Like how to survive in the tundra or the desert or the backwoods of New Jersey."

"I bet he is." Scott was quiet for a minute. "Ororo, we've been through a lot, haven't we?"

It was an absurd statement. He seemed to realize its ridiculousness as soon as he said it. He shook his head and smiled to himself.

"I don't know what happened to us, all of us," he said. "My fault. My team. I take full responsibility for it. It was pride."

She didn't know what to say.

"But I'm learning to live with that. I'm learning to live with those choices."

"Scott," she said. Alarmed. "It wasn't your fault! It wasn't your fault. None of this. It wasn't anybody's fault."

He stood up. "Monday. I'll come down and just get this over with. If you want to give me their essays this weekend, I'll take a look at them."

She knew that was a promise he wouldn't make good on. But she said she'd bring them by anyway.

He was dying. She knew it was coming—death was all over him.

She left his room and stumbled down the stairs. Found her coat in the closet and tried to ignore the fact that she was gasping for air. She had to go. She had to get out of the mansion right now and head for a drive through the hills. She felt dark and suffocated. The place was too small for her—it was a mansion, but it might as well have been a closet. She threw her coat on and closed the door and started to head for the garage. She could feel a nor'easter coming on because she was going to cause it.

Logan appeared in the hallway. Right in front her. He stepped out from the doorway of the den and blocked her path. "Where are you going?"

"Get out of my way." She tried to push past him but he didn't move.

He reached out and grabbed her by the arms. "Hey," he said. "Hey." Held on too tightly. He was too strong for her. He looked over her shoulder. There were kids down at the end of the hallway near the rec room, talking and chatting together. He pulled her forward and then pushed her into the den and closed the door.

"You want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"I need to go," she said, her words catching in her throat. "You—you don't understand—Logan—" She was starting to cry but it was an awful kind of crying, the kind of crying that could turn ugly fast, and especially for her. The kind of crying that she needed to be alone and out in the middle of nowhere to do.

He held her arms tightly and looked down at her. "Calm down," he said. "Storm." He caught her eyes. "Breathe." He softened his voice and relaxed his grip. "It's okay. Just calm down." (Remy had done this with her once, and he was better at it. He'd found her locked in a cell during a mission and about to cause a monsoon. But Logan—Logan was okay. He was good.) He let go of her arms.

She closed her eyes and leaned back. Tried to concentrate so that she could breathe normally. Then she slid down against the wall until she was sitting on the floor. She brought both of her knees up and set her hands on them. Felt her heart slow to a more normal rate. Logan knelt next to her. He grabbed her hands and squeezed.

"Whatever it is," he said, "it's going to pass. Just breathe."

There was a knock on the door. "Storm? Logan? Is everything alright?" The professor's voice. Jesus, she couldn't have a moment without him knowing about it. 

Logan got up and answered the door. The professor was in the doorway in his wheelchair. He studied her. She wondered how she looked to him—if she looked like a person who had finally broken.

"It's fine," Logan said, and a little curtly. "Everything's just fine, Professor."

She looked up at the professor. Then leaned her head back against the wall and looked away. She closed her eyes and heard him leave. Logan shut the door and came back and sat next to her, leaning against the wall.

"In Japan they have a word for this," he said.

"What?"

"I can't remember."

She thought he'd get up then and go back to see what the kids were doing, but he didn't. He watched over her. They sat there for an hour, and neither of them said anything.

She's thinking of this moment as she sits alone in the café, her water bottle empty, her stomach empty. And that's when she feels it: something touching her deep inside. No, ridiculous, it's too early. But then she knows: she's not strong enough to do this and never has been. She knew this even before she came to the city, and this is why she has spent four hours sitting in a café looking at an empty bottle of water. She doesn't know why or how, but she knows she can't go forward. It's selfishness, maybe—she should, by all means, put this baby out of the picture and go forward. Focus on the school. Rebuild the team. Spare herself—and Logan—of he inevitable loss and heartbreak, the question of mutation, the fear that they could pass a law tomorrow and take it away from them. This child deserves more than she can give. A stronger woman would do this. But she can't. She feels sick. She takes the appointment card from her pocket and rips it up and stuffs it into the empty water bottle. Then gets up and throws the bottle in the trash and goes outside. It's drizzling, this awful frozen rain shit, and she wonders if she caused that.

Outside, she throws up in a trashcan on the side of the street. 

She wanders around Central Park for a few hours. She doesn't want to go home yet. She's tired, and she just can't deal with daily hustle today, with the students and the piled-up work and the phone call she needs to make to Emma Frost. She wonders how Remy is holding down the fort, if he's had a poker tournament yet. Probably not. He's good enough to save that until the evening.

It's starting to get a little later. It's still drizzling. She takes out her phone, figuring she'll call him, or call Logan—she needs to tell him, but not until he gets back—when she notices that she's received a voicemail. Someone had called her before and she hadn't felt the phone vibrate.

It's Logan. When she hears his voice, hears the anxiety and worry, her heart sinks. "Storm, I need you to call me when you get this. It's important. The doctors—they want to do a biopsy. Please. Call me."

She stops right there in the middle of a bike path and does just that.

"Storm," he says when he picks up.

"Logan, what's happening?"

He starts talking. His voice is low and quiet. He says that the doctors did a CT scan and found something. A mass. They've scheduled a biopsy for the next day and they're going to have to put Rogue under.

"Logan," she says. She takes a breath. "I'm going to fly out. Tonight. I'll find a flight and be there late."

Silence. Then: "Where are you?"

His damn dog ears. "I'm in the city," she confesses. "I had to come down here for something. But I'm going home, I'm going to pack a bag, and then I'm going to get Remy to drive me back down to the airport. I'll call you when I know the specifics." There's another silence, but she doesn't wait for him to fill it. "Logan, it's going to be okay." She believes this now. She has to.

###

When she gets back to the mansion, she finds Remy in the rec room on the sofa—along with every kid at the Institute. All of them crammed into one room. But they're not playing poker. Instead they're all sitting together on the furniture and on the floor watching _American Idol_. Sadie's on one side of him and Hernan is on the other. The other kids are packed onto the sofa or into the chairs and shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor. The room is full and warm. Even Warren's there—sitting at the table, his eyes fixed on the TV. And it's nothing special—just some guy botching Stevie Wonder—but they're all watching like it's the last show on earth. She wonders if Remy hasn't hypnotized them. They should be doing their homework. She makes a mental note to describe the scene to Logan when she gets a chance.

She pauses in the doorway. He looks over his shoulder at her. His brow creases. His expression changes from bland amusement to concern. He gets up, leaving the kids on the sofa, and joins her in the hallway. They walk up the steps together.

"I need you to drive me to the airport," she says. (Why did she choose to tell him this first? Maybe because the future—the six and a half months from now future—isn't as pressing as what's happening with Rogue. Or maybe she just hasn't gotten that far yet in her own mind.)

"What's goin' on?"

She waits until she's in her room to tell him. She goes into the closet and gets a suitcase. Some clothes. She doesn't bother to take things off the hangers.

He shakes his head and crosses his arms in front of him as she talks about the biopsy. "That poor child," he says. "I was hoping they'd be home tomorrow. I was hopin' it was nothing."

"Yeah." She changes her shoes.

"Whatever this is, it ain't good, is it, _chere_."

She shoves some socks into her suitcase.

"You want some help with that?" he says.

"No, I just have to be at the airport by ten. That's the last flight out." She zips her suitcase.

Arms still crossed in front of him, he looks at her. Studies her. "You okay? You look tired. All done in."

She puts her hands on her hips and stares at her suitcase. She's exhausted.

"You want a cup of coffee? Tea? I'll make you some café con leche to go."

She continues to stare at her suitcase. "No, no caffeine. I can't. I'm going to have a baby."

He moves over to where she's standing and puts an arm around her shoulders. Kisses the top of her head. He pulls away. "I'll make you a sandwich then." He turns back to walk down the hallway.

Remy tells Warren to watch the kids. Then he pulls the car around and loads her suitcase into the trunk. When she gets into the passenger's side, she looks up and sees that the headlights are illuminating the courtyard. There's a colony of snowmen, some of them huge and elaborate, some of them wearing hats and scarves.

Remy gets into the driver's side and points at the snowmen. "Bobby came by today." He puts the car in drive. "He's crazy about that other little girl, Kitty."

"I know," she says.

"Says he's gonna marry her." He looks over at her and widens his eyes. "Seems pretty serious about it, too."

Great. Another thing to worry about. "They're so young," she says.

He laughs. "You don't have to tell me, _chere_. I tried to talk some sense into that boy. But some folks just have to figure things out for themselves."

The pull out of the driveway. Kitty and Bobby remind her of another couple, but she'd rather not talk about that. She doesn't want them to come back to teach at the mansion—they're both too talented, too bright, too promising. Too much life in front of them. They should go get jobs and buy houses, not join a team whose members tend to die before they reach forty. She knows she shouldn't touch this, but she wonders what would have happened if Jean had continued her work as a geneticist at NYU rather than pulling back to go full time at the mansion. Scott was always going to be an X-Man—it was what he was born to do—but Jean could have done so many other things.

"Bobby dated Rogue," she says. "Around the time when everything happened. Did you know that?"

He looks straight ahead. His long legs are bent at an uncomfortable-looking angle underneath the steering wheel. "Yeah, she mentioned it."

"It was around the time she took the cure." She glances over at Remy. "I think she took it to be with him."

He shakes his head. "Nah. If it wasn't him it woulda been some other guy. Or some other reason. And there wasn't nothin' no one could have done to prevent her from doin' that, either."

"Tell that to Logan. He really beats himself up about the fact that he let her leave that day."

Remy takes one hand off the steering wheel but doesn't glance over at Storm. "Those kids are like us."

She knows what he means: they're just going to keep getting mixed up in each other's lives.

She turns to him and says what she wanted to say five months before. "The hurricane."

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye but stays focused on the road.

"It was category five. It was completely beyond anything I could have dealt with. I'm sorry."

He's very quiet for a moment. "I know, _chere_. Ain't your fault. No one's fault."

There's a long moment, awkward. She shouldn't have said anything. Then he says, "I'm thinkin' I'll try to quit smoking, again. Not doing the patch again, though. Or the gum. Not gonna do anything. Just go cold turkey."

"You should see a doctor. You could get a prescription for something."

"Yeah." He laughs. "Another drug is the last thing I need."


	20. Chapter 20

Things went sideways with Black Tom Cassidy; Remy ended up with the pointed end of a shillelagh rammed through his upper chest cavity. (Luckily it missed his lung and arteries and other major organs.) And Scott was pissed, he was so fucking pissed. Not at Remy, though that was because he hadn't gotten around to it yet. He was pissed at the professor. And the professor was pissed at Scott. "I told you to call us. You needed Jean and Hank," he was saying. And Scott was saying, "You sent us in blind. You held out on us."

They were arguing while Remy was lying on the gurney, trying not to writhe in pain. Jean was trying to patch his chest, sewing him up. Emergency surgery. He was bleeding, kind of a lot. He tried not to look. He wouldn't let her put him under or give him anything. "Please, Remy," she had said. "I need to give you something to relax you, at least."

"You can't," he gasped. "I'm an addict." He clenched his teeth. She'd pumped him up with a local, but it was wearing off. His legs were shaking. But he'd been through worse. He'd be okay.

It had been a bad day, but bad days never caught Remy off guard. That was the difference between him and Scott, he realized. Scott had higher expectations about life than Remy. He always thought that things were going to turn out okay—and if things didn't turn out okay, he felt it was simply because they hadn't worked hard enough. Real Puritan bullshit. Remy never expected that much out of life, out of people. He wasn't surprised that perhaps the professor had withheld information, that he maybe hadn't told them everything he knew. It never shocked Remy when people lied to him or used him; he'd been used his whole life. First by the gangs, then by his dad. Then by Stryker. Now these people. Oh sure, they spun a nice story about family and loyalty—and he knew they believed it too and genuinely cared about him—but they were using him all the same. Weird thing was, he didn't mind. He knew they were good people; not like his dad, not the types to kick him into exile if he accidentally killed someone in self defense. They'd be there for him, always. They had his back. But he sensed that they thought he was dumber than they were. Or that they'd deliberately forgotten the measures of coercion they'd taken to draft him into this life.

They were paternalistic. Yes, that was the word. They convinced him and themselves that he needed to be helped, and he'd bought into the whole thing. They dictated his needs, and then they filled them.

The only person who given him so much for nothing in return was Dan. As he lay there, clenching his eyes shut and tensing from the pain, he thought of him. Dan was a nice safe memory. He thought of the day Dan defended his dissertation and afterwards Remy had taken him to the most expensive restaurant in the city and ordered a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Dan kept sitting there, closing his eyes and shaking his head, cringing. "I can't believe I said _that_ ," he said. "I should have brought up Racine. Why didn't I bring up Racine? Why did I let them force me to talk about Rousseau?" And Remy just laughed at him and flipped his lighter shut. "You egghead. You just got a PhD. You're a _doctor_ now, you little shit. Can't you just relax for once?"

Storm came over and grabbed his hand. Girlfriend was freaking out. "Squeeze my hand," she said. "As much as it hurts." He squeezed. Hard. He felt tears in the corners of his eyes. His muscles were twitching, even in his face.

"My God, Jean!" Storm said. "Give him something already. Can't you fucking do something?"

Remy shook his head from side to side. Oh, that Irish fuck. That bog bastard. How had he lost control of that situation?

Scott and the professor were still arguing. He'd never heard anyone argue with the professor before—especially not Scott. They'd all been trained since childhood to defer. But Scott was getting saucy. "These new Sentinels? This thing? It goes so deep. You can't tell me you didn't know that's why Magneto's marshaling his troops." God, the cajones on that kid.

Jean pulled his arm up so that she could get to the worst of the wound. He groaned. He couldn't help it. He could puke. She looked over at the professor and Scott. "Professor," she said.

The professor was in the middle of telling Scott that he _hadn't_ known about the new Sentinels, but that if Scott had waited for him and Jean and Hank to arrive before going in, maybe they could have averted this little disaster with Black Tom. But then he looked up. Seemed to realize that Jean had been calling for him. He rolled over to where Remy lay and stopped when he was above his head. "Remy," he said. "Try to relax." Then he felt the professor do something. Enter his mind and massage it a little. God, the fuck. When the professor dropped his hands, Remy felt calm. Better. He still hurt, but it was a manageable kind of hurt. "Just rest," the professor said. "We'll discuss this later." He looked up at all of them. "Jean, you stay with him. The rest of you, out."

They left. He looked up at Jean as she readied some kind of injection—he guessed a strong antibiotic or anti-inflammatory or something like that. He loved Jean, loved her so much. Not in a romantic way, not really. Not a sex thing. He loved her because she was Dan's type—a redhead, a healer, a brainiac. Those two really would have gotten along. In fact, he got the notion that Dan would have gotten along with all of them better than he did. They all had that studiousness in common. Remy was on the outside, looking in.

He focused on Jean. "I just hope Scotty Boy treats you okay." Why had he said that? He definitely had not planned to say that. The professor's little brain massage was bringing certain things to the surface. He knew that Scott treated Jean okay, but he wished he would treat her _more_ than okay. Wished he would dote on her a little more, take her down to the city more often, join a book club with her—do anything with her besides this X-Men bullshit. And if he wasn't going to buy her a ring, he might as well do something else nice for her to make her life as pleasant as possible. He got the sense—and maybe he was projecting—that Scott took her for granted. Same way he'd started to take Dan for granted after all those years, bitching quietly behind his hand when the dude left the milk out or worked three days straight on his dissertation or had the big Santo Domingo side of his family over for Christmas and they couldn't sleep together for a week because there were so many kids around.

Jean smiled at him, a smile of being caught off-guard but knowing how to handle it. "And I hope you treat Ro okay."

He closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about that right now. Earlier that day, during the afternoon, before the mission, he and Storm had spent some time together. In bed. His bed. They'd had sex a few times. Then they'd lain there for a couple of hours, smoking and listening to music. They were listening to "Shine on You Crazy Diamond"—his music, not hers—when he looked down at her. Her head was on his chest. He laughed. The song reminded him of her. She was crazy, this girl was so crazy. She wanted to do so many things to him, and he let her. He let her use him to work it out; he knew she had some issues, some latent sadness. He'd been there. Then she wanted to pour hot candle wax on his chest and he absolutely drew the line. "It's overrated," he told her.

That afternoon he'd just looked down at her and laughed. She was such a trip.

"Why are you laughing?" she'd said, raising her head to look at him.

"Nothin', baby. Get some rest. We got a long night ahead of us. And I gotta convince Scotty to convince the professor to pull some money out of his retirement fund so we can roll tonight."

"He'll never do that."

"Who? Scott or the professor?"

"The professor."

Remy closed his mouth. He knew. Scott would go for it but the professor would not.

Scott was a brilliant tactician and strategist but not as good at the street-level stuff. He recognized Remy's smarts and let Remy do what he needed to in order to get information. He knew that Remy played people, that he made deals with certain mutants in order to get them to give up other mutants. Knew that he gambled and bought what he needed. What they all needed. Technically, it was off the record. Technically, none of it was legal. And that's what bothered the professor. The professor was about keeping things above board, respecting authority, not striking first—all that diplomatic bullshit. But Remy played things loose. The professor let him get away with it; he looked the other way because Remy got results. He got information. His tips led to the arrest of one major Brotherhood operative and the lengthy prosecution of another. Despite all this, the professor did not openly condone Remy's methods of wheeling and dealing. His bribery. The fact that he took money from mutants just to put it in the hands of other mutants, none of them law-abiding citizens, and most of them very dangerous.

"Guess I'll have to get the money on my own," he murmured. He reached for his shirt. "I'll be back soon. Before tonight. Got some things to take care of." He needed to pull his meager savings together. Get Scott to kick in a little. There was a spot in the next town where he knew he could easily double whatever he had on him.

She watched as slipped his clothes back on and went to get his hat and boots. He could feel her watching him, but he didn't look up. Didn't give her that.

"Remy," she said as he was going for the door. "Be careful. I love you."

"Love you too, girl," he returned.

"No." She sat up, the sheet wrapped around her body. "I love you. Like, I'm in love with you."

Oh, that was just fucking great. He said something back—something he chose not to remember—and headed out to get his car. She was in love with him. Fantastic. He was a fuckhead gambler and a swindler and secretly carrying the torch for somebody else—somebody he'd never see again, somebody who might just as well be dead—and she was a heartbreakingly beautiful young woman—African royalty, he'd heard—and she'd chosen him. She'd chosen him to be the great romance of her early twenties, the really intense relationship you have before you move on to the inevitable let-down of life.

Now he looked up at Jean. He wondered how much she knew. Not just about him and Storm—he figured she knew everything about that—but about him in general. The life he'd left behind. What he was really thinking about when he looked at all of them together, when he was laughing along with them but thinking of someone else. Thinking of good times he wouldn't have again.

She was wrapping his shoulder in gauze. She must have known something. She was working, but her expression was thoughtful and calm. Knowing. The same expression she'd worn that day in the field behind the basketball court. But she didn't say anything about Storm. Instead, she said: "That roommate of yours."

He slowly exhaled. They'd talked about it only once. He studied her but her eyes never met his.

"I think he's looking for you."

Remy cringed as she moved his arm. "He can't ever find me," Remy said. "I need him to think that I'm dead." He inhaled sharply. "For his sake. Not mine."

She taped the bandage across his chest. "He's not going to think that. He's not going to give up. Trust me."

"You can know something like that?"

She nodded. "You have to prepare yourself for the possibility that he might find you."

Remy closed his eyes. He felt her gently move his arm into a sling.

She left him for a second. She grabbed a stool and brought it over so that she was sitting next to him as he lay on the gurney. "Tell me what happened with Cassidy. I'll get the full report from Scott and the professor later, but I want to know your take."

Earlier that night, they'd hit McCarthy's in Mutant Town, hunting for information on how to get to Cassidy. Remy knew the bartender. Dude named Joe. The bar was his. He had light sensitive spots on his skin that he had to cover up—a real bitch of a mutation. Not at all useful. He couldn't go out in the daytime. Remy dropped a couple of bills on him.

Joe had just laughed. "You can't get to Cassidy. You seriously think Cassidy would sit down for a chit-chat with a piece of fried chicken like you? No offense, Gambit."

Storm sat near the end of the bar. She pretended to check out the menu. Scott was waiting outside.

"Is that your girlfriend?" Joe asked.

He leaned his left elbow against the bar, facing away from Storm. "Just this chick I'm banging."

"What's her special take on life?"

Remy looked away and rolled his eyes. "She makes it rain. In my heart. Now come on, Joe. What the fuck." He turned to face the guy. "Remember that little conflict with the health inspectors? Maybe I oughta have my friends give them a call and bring them back and see how you really prepared tonight's fried chicken." He lowered his voice. "Heard the mayor's crackin' down. Doesn't like the fact that Manhattan went to shit in the last fifteen years. New zero tolerance policy for the little side business of running numbers, and he doesn't seem to have a soft spot for folks in this neighborhood." He nodded back in Storm's direction. "See that little woman over there? Cute as a button. School teacher, too. No one would ever believe she's anything but. Maybe I could take her downstairs and show her how you run things. Bet she makes a compelling witness for most New York state juries."

Joe looked down at his bar. "Oh, Gambit. You don't want to find Cassidy. And besides, he's insulated. And even if you got to him, that Irish prick would just have you for dinner."

Remy took out a cigarette and put it to his lips. "I've heard something big's about to go down."

"So have I. We all have." He set his hands on the bar. Remy looked at the green spot on his hand and Joe moved to cover it up. "I heard Cassidy's over in Morningside Heights. He's running a prostitution ring, among other things. But high class. For mutants who have made it. Not a stable of cracked out hookers by any stretch of the imagination. His girls were trafficked, though. None of them are in this country legally."

"Just give me the address."

Remy tipped Joe for his whiskey, got Storm, and went outside to see Scott. "We have to go to Morningside Heights," he said. He explained the situation.

Scott listened, arms crossed. "We should call Jean and Hank, get them down here. Suit up. Cassidy's so dangerous."

"No, no," Remy said. "Last thing we want to do is go in with your eyes blazing. Cassidy's not the one we want, remember? We want to figure out why Toad is in town."

Scott thought for a minute. "No. We should call the professor. He'll want to be here for this."

"Yeah, you do that and all of a sudden we've got every shit stirring sycophantic telepath in District X on the horn to Black Tom warning him that Charles Xavier's come down to the city with the ensemble reunion cast from _Charlie's Angels_ and _Scooby Doo_. You think they'll want our autographs?" Remy reached out and put his hand on Storm's shoulder. "I think she could pass for a high-class sex slave. What about you, baby?" He smiled at her.

###

Remy got one of Cassidy's underlings to take them to see the man. Easily. The lackey was playing poker at the hotel where most of the call girl activities went down. He was in the bar. Remy walked in with Storm on his arm, bought himself a place at the table, and cleaned out the dude in three rounds. And that's how he got him to roll on Cassidy. These people were predictable. Scott was right; they lacked loyalty. "I just want to take my girl in to see Black Tom," Remy explained, gesturing at Storm. "See what kind of a price he can give me. That's all." He flashed a smile. The guy bought it.

Until he got up from the table and gestured to Scott. Scott walked over, hands in his pockets, looking preppy and out of place. This was just not Scott's gig. Scott was good at stakeouts and battle maneuvering and anticipating what the bad guys were up to, but he didn't go undercover very well. He was just too Club Med, too pretty. Not to mention that visor.

"Who's that?" the kid said. That's when Remy noticed that he had some kind of tail sticking out from under his pants.

"My lawyer. I don't do business without him."

The kid looked at Scott and then back at Remy. "No. No one but you and the girl."

"Guess I'll just be keeping my chips, then. How's your boss gonna react when he finds out you lost a night's earnings because you folded to a guy with a seven of spades and a three of clubs?" He squeezed Storms forearm and pulled her closer. "She don't even speak English. Right off the boat from Haiti. The best kind."

The kid puffed out his chest. Then relaxed. "Fine. This way." He led Remy, Storm and Scott through a series of hallways. Occasionally they passed one of the working women or a body guard. Remy just smiled and tipped his hat.

"I think you're enjoying this pimp act a little too much," Scott whispered. Remy could tell he was nervous; he wanted to call the professor and get the green light. But Remy wasn't worried at all. He'd been in more dangerous situations. Scott was moving like a raccoon on speed, but Remy had the nervous system of a clam.

"Relax," he whispered. Scott's jitters were going to get their cover blown. Dude needed a crash course in pathological lying.

The kid stopped and gestured to a door at the end of the hallway. "That's it," he said. "That's where Black Tom is staying."

"He alone?" Remy said.

The kid looked at him. Then, had second thoughts. Jumped. His feet hit the back of the wall and he started to leap forward. He was about to take out Remy when Scott opened fire, aiming at the guy's chest. The kid ended up face down on the carpet, five feet away.

Remy went and bent over him. The guy was knocked out. He shook his head and tisked. He reached into his pocket and dropped two chips on his back. "Buy yourself some Advil tomorrow." He paused. Then dropped another two chips on the kid. "And a bus ticket. One-way."

Scott said, "This is already too messy. We're not going in without back up."

"If you'd just relax," Remy said, straightening up. "I'll take us all for jambalaya afterwards. How 'bout that?"

"I'm serious, Remy. He might not be alone, but we don't know that because we don't have Jean or the professor with us."

They were whispering. Music was coming from room at the end of the hallway. Storm looked between Remy and Scott.

"I'm calling," Scott said.

But it was Storm who reached over and steadied his hand before he went for his phone. "Remy's right. We might not get another chance to get this close to Black Tom. I think we can do this." She went toward the door. "I'll stay out here. Cover you guys."

Remy got the feeling that Storm would have liked to push the door open with a huge wind gust, but that wasn't his style. With Scott behind him, he went up to the door and simply busted the lock with his hand.

Cassidy was alone. Blessedly alone. Not even a call girl on his couch. He was sitting at a table in the center of an elaborately decorated penthouse—oriental rugs, widescreen TV, jacuzzi, the whole deal. When Remy walked in he looked up. He was counting some money—nothing huge, just a few bills—a cigar between his teeth, a glass of whiskey in front of him. He smiled, his eyes wide.

"Black Tom," Remy said, stepping into the room, hands in his pockets. He figured he'd try the easy way: ask and you shall receive. He smiled. Swaggered. Scott was behind him. "Sorry to enter without knocking. I know it's terribly impolite, but you wouldn't return my phone calls." He pointed over his shoulder. "Your assistant let us in. I'm—"

"Remy LeBeau," Cassidy finished. Then he chuckled. "Your reputation precedes you." He laughed again. "To what do I owe this little infringement on my privacy?" Instead of waiting for an answer he went for his shillelagh, which was leaning against the table. Remy saw.

"I got it," he shouted to Scott because he knew that Scott was about to open fire. Again. And if he knocked out Tom, they'd never get any answers.

Remy flipped the shillelagh before Cassidy reached for it. In his hands it became a different weapon. Seconds later he had Cassidy pinned against the wall, the shillelagh under his throat. "You ever had the pleasure of extracting this from your ass?" he asked, whispering harshly in Cassidy's ear. "How would you like me to make that experience possible for you?"

Cassidy stared at him, gasping for breath. Then he just laughed again. But this time there was an edge to his laughter, a pissed-off undertone that rolled from his voice.

Remy let him down, took the shillelagh away. Scott came over and grabbed him by the arm and pushed him down in the chair next to the table. Scott sat on the table. Remy came over and, without even touching it, brought over and second chair so that he could sit next to Cassidy. He swung his leg around so that he could sit backwards, his hands gripping the chair. He took off his hat and tossed it on the table. "You should have just welcomed us in, Irish. We weren't going to stay long. But now—" he reached for Cassidy's cigar box at the center of the table and took one—"we might stay awhile. Don't mind if we do."

"I've no beef with Charles Xavier," Cassidy said, "but you two are causing me to reconsider my policy."

"Just tell us what we need to know," Scott said. "And we'll let you go back to doing what you do."

Cassidy looked up at Scott out of the corner of his eye and burst out laughing. He shook his head as if enjoying a good private joke. He brought his hands together.

"Oh, are these Cuban?" Remy said, taking out a lighter and placing the cigar between his lips. "Thought so. We'll have to add that to your list of sins and illegal contraband. Along with sex slaves." He puffed.

"Not to mention gun smuggling for the IRA," Scott said, leaning forward on the table to look Cassidy in the face. "Does the FBI know you're in town?"

And Cassidy just looked up at Scott and smiled. "What kind of play date are you two pansies after? What do you want? Other than a swift kick in the ass?"

Remy took the cigar from his lips and winked. "Why is Toynbee in New York?"

"I don't bother with the Brits." He looked down at the table.

"Why is Magneto marshaling his foot soldiers?" Scott said, leaning closer, his hand still clenched around Cassidy's shoulder.

Cassidy looked up at Scott, no longer smiling. "You're gonna want to take your hand off my shoulder, boy." He continued to stare until Scott withdrew his hand. Then, he laughed again. "You kids are couple of stupid fucks. You ought to ask Charles Xavier why Magneto's doing what he's doing. He'd have more insights about his old crony's motivations than I do. I can't believe he didn't tell you what's going on." He looked back at Scott, then at Remy. "Unless he believes you're as stupid as I do."

"Enlighten us," Remy said.

Cassidy was silent. He sat for a moment, the smirk still on his face. He slid his hands over the table.

"You know," Scott said, "I have a friend at Immigration. Close friend. Maybe I can give him a call. How up-to-date are your papers? And the papers of all your employees here?" He leaned forward. "How about the girls? How do their visas look?"

Cassidy broke into another laugh, this one louder and more satisfied. He threw his head back. "And you think I _don't_ have friends at Immigration? You think I don't have friends at the prosecutor's office, the FBI, the DEA? How many pathetic connections do you have, between the two of you? How many shit-eating friends do you have in high places? Multiply that by twelve and that's how many I have." He shook his head. "You boys are outranked. You've nothing, and you've no leverage. You should've done your homework before you decided to come in here and amuse me with your antics. I guess Charles left that lesson out of his curriculum."

Remy took the cigar from his lips and leveled a finger at Cassidy. "Listen here, Tom. Your people get safe passage in the district. I give them safe passage. I get them out of their petty theft jams and gambling fuck-ups."

Cassidy fixed his eyes on Remy, his gaze steady and unblinking. "No, Gambit. My people give _you_ safe passage. You are alive today because I have allowed it." He raised his hand. "I bring my hand down?" He lowered his arm on the table. "And you are no longer allowed to breathe. You think my people don't want a crack at you? They'd have to line up behind the Morlocks. You are alive because I haven't said the word." He bent closer to Remy and lowered his voice. "Let's be clear on who owes whom."

Remy leaned back. Scott stood behind him and Remy could tell he was irritated as hell. Cassidy was handing them their asses. Scott would take this as an offense to his pride. Yeah, this was a mistake. Remy'd misread things. Well, shit happened. That's what he'd have to tell Scott afterwards: sometimes you just got outbluffed. No matter how good you were. You had to swallow it.

"But like I said, I've no beef with Charles Xavier," Cassidy said. "At least not till today." He flashed a grin. "So how's this? I give you this one for free. Next time, I want a favor. But if I tell you this, maybe you'll quit all your pokin' around and go back to your country manor. Your being here is bad for business."

"We're listening," Remy said.

"Magneto's people are coming together. There are plans to get Sabretooth out of prison. But it's not Magneto you need to be afraid of. It's Sentinels." He paused, a smile playing on his lips. "Either your professor is the dumbest telepath alive, or he's holdin' out on you. And if I were a gambling man—" he nodded at Remy—"I know where I'd put my money."

Remy looked over at Scott. He had no idea what Cassidy was talking about, but Scott shifted. The air seemed to leave his body. The atmosphere seemed to change.

"Magneto wants total world domination, but on his terms, not HYDRA's. I just want what's best for international trade." He looked up. "Genocide is bad for business. So we might call ourselves allies in this little war." He smiled again. "So leave me alone. And let Magneto do what he needs to do."

"Why should we believe you?" Scott said.

"That's the wrong question," Cassidy returned. "Maybe you should ask yourselves the more pertinent question: Why did your professor allow you to come down here without givin' you this information first? Now, if you'll excuse me." He stood up. Scott backed away and Cassidy turned to face him. "You kids should drop out while you're still ahead. You ain't smart enough for this game. You want to play with the big boys? You need to get your hands dirty more often." He paused. "Tell Charles to let Lehnsherr's people take out the trash. Quit meddlin'. Go back to your studies and quit trying to play both sides of the fence. You'll just make things worse. Go back to doing what you do best: being irrelevant. Give Charles my regards."

Remy looked at Scott, and that's when it happened. Tom sensed he had dropped his guard and went for the shillelagh in Remy's lap. And before he had a chance to leap away or grab it back, Cassidy had rammed it into his chest. He spun around to face Scott. Scott opened fire—but so did Cassidy. Quick enough to knock Scott on his ass.

"That's for threatenin' me. Like I said, this is your freebie," Cassidy said. "Next time I kill you." He picked up his shillelagh and headed for the window. By the time Storm came running into the penthouse with gale force winds behind her, he was gone.

Remy called for Scott and climbed to his feet by using his good arm. He wasn't yet aware of the pain or of the warm blood seeping onto his shirt. "Scott," he said. "You okay?"

Scott coughed and rolled over. Storm was bent over him, helping him into a sitting position. Remy staggered forward. He tried to take a breath, and that's when he felt it—a sharp throb that radiated from his chest. Scott struggled to his feet and held out his hand. "Remy, don't move," he said. "You're hurt."

"Oh my God," Storm said. She came towards Remy, grasping for him, her arms outstretched. So did Scott.

That's when he looked down and saw the blood. And collapsed into their arms.

###

He slept most of the next day. Storm left him alone. Jean must have told her that he needed space to recover—and that was good. When he and Storm couldn't bang they had to actually talk to each other. And she inevitably talked about the kid who gave her lip in history class or the girls' archery team. Or something like that. And he wasn't in the mood to humor her. Not today.

The professor summoned him to his study at about three in the afternoon. Scott was already there. Pokerfaced. Remy sat in the other chair, his chest still throbbing. His arm was still in a sling, so he wore a jacket over a loose sweater to hide it from any kids who might be walking by. Going through this healing process without any pain medication was tough, but Remy knew that he was one tablet of codeine away from a one-way trip to rehab. He tried not to groan as he sat down. He put his hat in his lap along with his book.

The professor sat across the desk and stared at them. At both of them. For an intolerable amount of time. Remy knew that the guy wanted one of them to start talking, but it wasn't going to be him. Finally the professor said, "You both owe me an explanation."

Scott took a deep breath and slumped a little bit.

"I trusted you," the professor said. He looked at Scott. "I trusted your judgment. I trusted that you were reliable and smart enough to know that going into these things underprepared and undermanned will get people killed." He turned to Remy. His eyes were hard, unyielding. "And I trusted that you were taking this seriously."

(Remy was taking this seriously. That was the thing. He'd never taken anything so goddamn seriously before in his life.)

"HYDRA's a serious problem," the professor said. He looked at Remy again. "The Sentinels are a more serious problem. But you're going to be playing things by the book from now on. No more excursions to the city for the time being. You'll be working with the intelligence that we bring you. Up here. In Westchester."

Oh, that was just great. He tried not to roll his eyes. Was Jean really going to go down and chat up some gangs in between her hospital shifts? And how out of place would Scott look at a dog fighting ring? Yeah, let them try this without him. Let them try to get the same results.

The professor turned to Scott. "He made you doubt your instincts, and you let him." He glanced back at Remy. "And you. You better figure out who you are and what you're doing this for. Because if you're doing this for personal glory, then go back to the casinos. Do it for them," he said, nodding to the windows. The kids were playing outside, their laughter and kid noises rising and falling, the occasional thwack of kick ball. "They're the reason we're here. They're what you should be thinking about. Now," he said, backing up his wheelchair slightly, "Scott and I have some important matters to discuss. We will apprise you of the situation when we have all the facts."

So he was being sent to the kiddie pool. Fabulous. He wondered if he needed to raise his hand to go to the bathroom now too. He stood up slowly, keeping his back straight. Headed for the door. Set his hand on the doorknob and opened it. Then, looked back. "With all due respect professor, you've never trusted me." Didn't bother to read the older man's reaction. Put his hat on. Then, left.

He didn't feel like going back to his room, but it was mid-afternoon and there were too many children around. They hadn't even eaten dinner yet. He wandered out to the courtyard and past the basketball court and past the soccer field. Found a nice glade to sit in. Alone. Yeah, he was in some pain. He needed to be by himself to deal with this.

It was October; fall was creeping into the edges of the landscape, the colors turning. The leaves never turned this early down south. The afternoons never got dark or cold. He wondered what Dan was doing at this moment. If he was in Minnesota, he was probably freezing his ass off too. Yeah, Remy was thinking about cutting and running. He had these thoughts at least once a month but always came to the same conclusion: there was nothing out there for him. Nothing at all. No family or friends in New Orleans. Logan was AWOL. Dan was better off thinking he'd died. Xavier's people—this collection of rag tags and fuck-ups—were all that he had. And this X-Men thing? The only chance he had of making good on what he'd done before.

But he was hurting. Really hurting. He tried some visualization exercises that Jean had taught him, but they didn't work. So he took out the book he'd taken from the library— _Remembrance of Things Past_ , Volume I, English translation. Opened it with his good hand and tried to read. Tried to hear Dan's voice. And when that didn't work, closed the book and watched the color drain from the sky.


	21. Chapter 21

Logan waits for Storm at the airport; it's cold and it's late. He's not picking her up outside. He's left the car in the parking garage so that he can come in and help her with her luggage. (He knows she will have luggage.) And he wants to see her, besides. Needs to see her now before anything else bad happens. And wants her to see him. Here. Wants to be the guy she sees first when she walks off the plane. He is, he thinks, privately romantic. He wonders if it's a personality trait that he's always carried, like genetic memory, or if it's something that he's developed more recently.

In any case, he's restless to see her and a little embarrassed he called her out here. They haven't been separated since Alcatraz, and thirty-six hours after he left he's dreadfully homesick for her. He's the guy who wandered around Asia for years and spent the nineties living out of a trailer in the Canadian Rockies, he's the guy who only had about four friends until recently, and now, after spending one night away from her—from them all—he's upset. A little jammed up. It's Rogue, he knows. She's sick. She's really sick—he didn't know it was quite this serious. The doctors are talking _stages_ for chrissakes.

She's back at the hotel. Resting, hopefully sleeping. He didn't want to leave her alone, but he didn't want Storm to take a taxi either. In any case, the hotel is close to the airport. He scratches his forehead and closes his eyes. Then, opens them. People are filing out of the gate and past all the metal detectors and x-ray machines, guys casual business attire and a woman carrying a sleeping child and an old Middle Eastern couple. And then, Storm. She doesn't see him at first. He raises his arm to wave and he catches her eyes. They walk toward each other and embrace, and probably for a little too long. (Neither of them is big on public displays of affection.) Her head rests against his shoulder. He pulls away.

"How is she?" she asks, her hand on his upper arm.

"Resting right now," he says. "Seems no better or worse than she has been." He looks away for second, turns his body away at a forty-five degree angle. "She's scared."

She holds onto his arm. "Logan—"

"How was your flight?" He looks at her and notices that she has only her purse and a biography of Thurgood Marshall under her arm. "Where's your bag?"

"I checked it."

She checked it? If the mood were different, he'd roll his eyes. Say something ripe, something he'd probably regret later. He's never checked a bag in his life—not that he's ever had a bag to check. But Storm can't go anywhere without a full wardrobe. It's something that would drive him crazy in a different situation—if they were flying to Acapulco or something. (But why would they do that? Will they ever have the chance to do something like that? Vacation days don't seem to come as one of the Institute's perks.)

"Right," he says. "The baggage claim is downstairs." He hopes her luggage hasn't been lost.

When they get downstairs, the suitcases are already rolling by on the conveyor belt. She points hers out and he goes over to pick it up. (Loves doing things like this.) Carries it over to her. "I'm parked right outside," he says, gesturing to the automatic doors. He's still holding her suitcase as they walk through the doors and to the walkway.

"Logan, it has wheels," she says, pointing to the suitcase.

"That's okay. I got it."

As they walk to the parking garage they're quiet. He's nervous—about too many things. Rogue's test. What the doctors will say. The future. What the future really holds. (Everything's been so calm for the past two years. Storm says this is normal. She says it happens. She's told him that in the past stretches of time went by when nothing at all happened and they went to Broadway plays together and on ski trips, and then all of a sudden there'd be a deluge of shit. She's told him to enjoy the reprieve while it lasts.)

He wonders about Storm, how she really sees him. Or how she thinks he sees her. Yes, that's the thing he's really wondering about. He can often feel the hesitation in her voice and detect a guarded look in her eyes. These days more than ever. He just wants to reassure her but he doesn't know how. Instead, she seems to be the one who's often reassuring him. He wants to tell her that he's not leaving. That she's the only one he's thinking about. All that. The Jean thing—yeah, that was rough. The day he walked out on them—after the professor's death—that was the worst. When he recalled the exchange they'd had in his bedroom, it never comforted him to know that she was the one who forced him to admit that he loved Jean. At the time, he felt that Storm was being unnecessarily callous in saying that Jean had made a choice; Jean had been her best friend, after all. Now, looking back, he knows that she was just in pain—hurt because the professor and Scott were dead. Callousness was the only way she could prepare herself for the inevitable tragedy that would unfold: either Jean would die or they would all die. They were going to have to put Jean down. Storm knew this while Logan was still foolish enough to hold on to some fragile, hopeful dream of resolution and mutual utopian understanding and all that crap.

And Storm, God. He wonders. At first—yeah, he has to admit this—it _was_ a loneliness thing. For both of them, he guesses. He was there, she was there, they were both two lonely people running this school out in the middle of goddamned nowhere with no other grownups around and nothing to do but settle kids' disputes about who took too long in the shower or who was playing their shitty music too loud. So then there was sex to pass the time. And companionship. But when did this thing stop being motivated by loneliness and start being motivated by something else? He has no idea. He wasn't paying attention. He wasn't expecting this much to come of it. Now he wishes he'd been paying attention, wishes he had that moment to revisit in his mind.

He knows that, without intending to, he stepped onto a strange emotional playing field when he started this thing with her. Strange for him and for her. Scott and Jean and the professor are dead—and he and Storm both do a good job of putting on a good face for the kids—but there are ghosts in the mansion. And no one brings them to the surface like Remy. Remy has a cache of stories, but he is selective about what he chooses to tell. He is, like all mystics, a keeper and giver of secrets. At night he and Remy go out to the terrace and smoke together, and Remy will occasionally tell him something he didn't know before, or illuminate some aspect he saw but didn't understand. One night last week he sat Indian style on the brick wall, a cigarette between his fingers, and he had on two overcoats. Logan was Canadian-blooded; for him it felt like a reasonable day in April.

And Remy just said, "Storm."

Logan flinched and prepared himself for the inevitable awkwardness. He and Remy do not ever discuss Storm other than to say what she's doing or where she is at any given moment. He knows that Storm and Remy used to sleep together, but that's it. The information flow on that is all one-way; it comes from Storm, not Remy. Remy is a southern gentleman. He does not kiss and tell.

(Storm told him all about it about three months into this thing (how he hates the word _relationship_ ), well before LeBeau came to stay with them after being displaced by the hurricane. They were sitting in the kitchen together and Logan was trying to fix the sink—he liked to think that she always caught him doing these handy, masculine things—and they were getting that awful talk out of the way, that big full disclosure moment where you tell your current partner about your past relationships and try to play them down. He really didn't have that much to contribute. And then Storm said something about Remy. He dropped the wrench and pulled himself out from under the sink. "Remy LeBeau?" he said. "Storm, really? I mean, _really_." He just stared at her. Gave her a good long look. Her gaze met his. He could tell that she was trying to decide whether or not to be annoyed. Then she just broke into a smile and looked down at her hands. "I know, right? But I was young." He lowered himself back onto the floor. "Remy LeBeau," he whispered. He knew enough about that guy not to ask. She said, "Poor Remy. He actually wasn't bad, if you must know." He told her that he really didn't want to know—he'd be happier if she kept that information to herself.)

So when Remy said Storm's name on the terrace, he quietly prepared himself for some kind of watershed moment. Instead, Remy looked down and just tapped the end of his cigarette. "The sister always played second fiddle. She won't tell you that, but that's how it was around the mansion. Xavier," he said, taking a drag, "was a good man. Complicated, though, like most good men. And hard as hell to please."

Logan stood there and just cracked his knuckles. Waited for Remy to go on.

"I didn't care," he said. "Didn't give a shit what the man thought of me. I was old enough by then—didn't need the approval of nobody. But Storm? She was different. More sensitive. Came up with Jean and Cyclops." He hunched forward. "Old girl has a hell of way about her, but in those days she kinda got the short end. That's why she works her ass off. Always has, too. I felt bad. I always felt bad." He rubbed the sole of his shoe.

"What do you mean?"

"Those three were family. But no one could ever compare to Jean. Jean had the professor's ear. She understood him in a way that only another telepath could. And Scott had his role to play. Kid was like a son the man never had."

He nodded. He understood that Remy was trying to tell him that Storm had always been the odd person out. "Storm told me that you three were tight. You and Scott and Jean."

"Nah," he said. "I wasn't here most of the time. Had business elsewhere. Used to check in only once or twice a year."

Right. His years undercover. He talks about those years as if he'd made a personal choice to go AWOL, but Logan knows better. He puts up a good front about his X-Men stint not meaning that much to him. Storm has recently given Logan a different perspective, but even she has only tiny slivers of information. The only people who know what really happened are dead.

And Remy. Who won't talk, except to drop the most infuriating hints. Like this night on the terrace.

He took another drag. "We did some shit. _I_ did some shit out there. I did it so they wouldn't have to. I was built for it. I don't think they were, but they never had to find out. That's good." He lowered his voice and looked at his shoes. "Good for her, especially now."

Logan knows not to interrupt. If you interrupt Remy's conversation, you lose it forever.

Remy looked up. He narrowed his eyes at Logan. "Out there, all that shit? You know what I'm talkin' about."

Logan did, but that was the frustrating part. Yes, he had killed Jean—he had looked her right in the face and killed her. He was the sort of person who could do something like that. But that wasn't all. His own life, his dreams, his capabilities, the things Magneto and Stryker had hinted at—they were like stories he'd been told rather than actual memories. Remy had actual memories. "Pal," he said. "What you went through." He held his hands out. "Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault."

Remy looked down at his lap and shook his head to himself. Let out something that sounded like a laugh. "Yeah," he drawled. At that moment, with his head down, he looked very young. The way he had years before. "In the cards, the goddamn cards." He brought his cigarette to his lips, almost nervous. Then he looked back at Logan, the cigarette dangling between his fingers. Pointed at him. Leveled a gaze at him Logan wasn't prepared for. It was intense and aggressive. "Seriously, Logan. Don't fuck around with people."

Logan stood there. He put his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. Whatever Remy was talking about, he meant it.

"You need to step up," he said.

Logan was offended at first. He does not, he thinks, fuck around with people. And all he's done since Alcatraz is step up—two years of stepping. He's stepped. And to have Remy LeBeau of all people tell you how you need to live your life? Well. He had a few words.

But then he thought better of it. Remy's tone was just so _meant_. Logan recognized that this little pep talk was more for Remy's sake than for his. He was looking for something—absolution maybe? Logan was silent.

"Logan," Remy said again, this time even more forceful. He stared at him then slowly exhaled. Then looked away. "Logan, shit." He dropped his cigarette and laughed to himself. "You should go inside," he said. He looked at Logan again. This time his gaze was warm but sad. And very convincing. "Go," he whispered. He nodded to the lighted windows and then looked down at his lap.

And Logan obeyed him.

Logan thinks now that hasn't always been what he needed to be. As he and Storm near the car in the parking garage and he unlocks it and pops the trunk with the remote, he thinks of Rogue, of that day when he let Rogue leave the mansion. "I'm not your father," he said—but a father was exactly what she needed at that moment. She needed to be told to go back upstairs and unpack her shit. She needed to be told that her mutation wasn't the end of the world, that physical contact wasn't the be all and end all people made it out to be. That she was just fine the way she was—and anyway, if she wanted to just hold off for a couple of years, there might be an antidote down the line that wasn't as permanent or as damaging to cellular activity.

Storm is already in the passenger's side with the door closed. He closes the trunk, quietly. Shakes his head for a moment.

He goes around and slides into the driver's seat. Turns over the ignition. Glances over at her quickly. "Are you okay?" (This is not what he wanted to say. He wanted to thank her for everything—for dropping everything and running to the airport at ten o'clock at night simply because he called her.)

"Just tired," she says. "I've been up since five-thirty this morning."

He nods. "Storm—" he says, then stops for a second. Thinks. Pulls his hands from the steering wheel and looks over at her. "I need you."

"I need you too," she says without missing a beat.

"No." He looks through the windshield at the concrete wall of the parking garage and then turns his head too look at her again. "I, um, I need you." He brings his left hand up and scratches his neck, but this is just to distract himself from the fact that it's getting hard to breathe.

She studies him. Her mouth falls open a little. Her eyes soften. Then she reaches across the armrest and puts her left hand on his shoulder, her right hand on his thigh. "Logan," she says. "It's going to be alright. I promise. I promise you that. This will work out."

He looks away. Puts the car in reverse. She takes her hands away, and then sets her left hand on his thigh again. They ride back to the hotel without saying anything.

When they get to the room, Logan slides the card and opens the door very slowly. He hopes Rogue is asleep and doesn't want to wake her. The room is dark but the TV is playing. They slip into the room and Rogue sits up in the bed. She hasn't been sleeping. She's been waiting for them. "Storm?" she says, her voice rough.

Logan reaches over and turns on the light. Rogue has been crying.

"Honey," Storm says, crossing the room. She goes to her, coat still on, scarf still around her neck. Just goes to her. Rogue starts to sob and Storm sits on the bed next to her and takes her in her arms.

"I'm sorry," she sobs. She leans against Storm.

Storm cups her face and smoothes her hair back. "There's nothing to be sorry for, sweetie." And they stay like that for a while. Logan watches, and then looks away. He moves to the bathroom to get Rogue a cup of water.

###

They put Rogue to bed. Storm doesn't even bother to change into her nightclothes before getting into the other bed; Logan thinks that she must be really tired. He sits beside her, his back against the headboard. They talk quietly. She's lying on her side, looking up at him. "He had them all hypnotized tonight," she's whispering. She smiles. "They were watching _American Idol_. All of them. Even Warren."

He looks down at her and shakes his head. "Why can't he hypnotize them into doing something useful? Like putting away the archery equipment? Or caulking the bathtubs?"

"Don't encourage him," she whispers.

He laughs, as quietly as he can manage. "Go to sleep."

She does. He doesn't. He won't sleep. He gets up and sits in the chair. The TV is still playing on low volume. He watches the middle-of-the-night news shows, the up-to-the-minute shit. Watches as they give the headlines and the weather.

He dozes. When he wakes up, there's a news spot on about mutants. He shakes himself awake and then watches. They're showing pictures of mutants lined up on the Washington Mall and in front of Congress, signs in their hands. Protesting. "The mutant community is demanding reparations for those who reportedly underwent experimentation during the 1970s," the newscaster is saying. Logan leans toward the TV. "Other powerful mutants are urging Congress to open an investigation into these so-called government projects, which, they allege, resulted in the disappearance or deaths of thousands of mutant children and young adults." Then there is a shot of that woman who had been at the mansion that day, that Emma Frost person. She is being interviewed in a small, well-lit room—she's wearing a pink sweater and a string of pearls. She looks like the kind of middle-aged woman who cleans up well, he thinks. (He recognizes her right away as middle-aged, though he knows others probably think she is younger.) "Those of us who were lucky enough to escape these prisons know that no one can put a price on our suffering. We are American citizens, and we were tortured by the U.S. government and other collaborating governments. We want to be heard."

The news segment ends. And then there's a spot about New Orleans, about how crime is at an all-time high, gangs have taken over, all that stuff. His thoughts spin back to Remy, naturally.

After Remy's disappearance from New Orleans and apparent death, Logan tried to forget about the guy. But he caught up to him—officially—in 1997. He was passing through Vegas to take care of some things when he overheard two people talking about LeBeau. They were at the end of the bar, but he heard Remy's name and his ears perked up. "This guy," a woman was saying. "He's about to break this place. Walk away with the jackpot. He's a casino owner's worst nightmare."

A man asked, "How does he do it? Does he cheat?"

The woman set her drink down. "Nothing that they can catch. Some people think he's lucky. Others just think he's really good. But most people know what he really is. There's no other fuckin' way."

Wait a sec, back up. Logan knew Remy was alive by this point. Why? Because he'd stumbled across him in Seattle back in early 1992. He'd been in Vancouver for the winter and decided, as spring came back, to duck down to Seattle. The borders were wide open back then; it wasn't a problem to come and stay awhile.

In Seattle the streets were filled with kids going to concerts, Mudhoney or Mother Love Bone—he could never remember—and he was checking out the dives and bars and sushi restaurants. Looking for a good place to drink or set up shop for a while. There were plenty of mutant-friendly bars cropping up, but Logan never knew whether or not it was a good idea to frequent such places. He didn't like to advertise what he was. And yet, going into a mutant-friendly establishment meant that he could just relax. Let his guard down. Not wonder if anyone was looking at him, thinking.

At one such establishment he was about to order something from the menu and start on a good cigar when he smelled something. No, someone. He looked up. Got up from the bar and walked toward the smell. There was a crowded table near the end of the room, right next to the window. A bunch of people were sitting there, the table littered with empty cigarette cartons, half-empty beer pitchers and a messy collection of bottles. Someone said something and everyone laughed. And in the middle next to the window was LeBeau.

So, he wasn't dead. Logan stood there and smirked. That asshole. He wondered if he shouldn't go up to him and ask him what the fuck had happened back in New Orleans. He advanced toward the table, but slowly.

Remy looked up. Saw Logan— _had_ to have seen Logan. But, nothing. No trace of recognition in his eyes. Stared past Logan.

And that look—that blank look on Remy's face—stopped Logan dead.

Remy looked down and shook his head—very slightly, surreptitiously. Looked up again, his lips pursed. Looked at the wall.

Logan didn't come any closer.

Someone at the table said something and they all laughed again. Including Remy. He looked up and laughed. His facial hair was longer and he definitely didn't look as dapper as he always had in New Orleans. In fact, he looked like everyone else, dressed down, like he was dressed to fit in. Logan took a good look at the others. This was a rough bunch. He could tell. These guys were big, mean. Heavily armed—he could smell the chrome. They looked like—yeah, this was exactly the phrase that came to mind—killers for hire. Real professionals. And LeBeau was right there with them. Logan could tell that he wasn't the leader of the group but a more peripheral member. Still.

One said something to the others and they all shifted and shuffled to their feet. Dropped bills on the table. Started to move out. Logan sucked in his breath but didn't move. One guy, one really big guy, brushed past Logan. He stopped and said something, something Logan chose not to remember. He didn't want to fight. Not today. And definitely not with these guys.

"C'mon, asshole," LeBeau said, looking back. He was holding onto a staff. "Quit playin'. The man wanted us to move yesterday already. Jesus."

And the other guy said something back and they walked past and out the door to the sidewalk. Logan watched. Thought about it for a day. Then, tried not to think about it anymore.

Until Vegas, '97. Once he heard that LeBeau was in town, he started sniffing around. Checking out different casinos and clubs. One day, one late afternoon, he found the cat playing poker at a corner table—no fanfare. No flying cards or anything. The guy looked like anybody. He had two cards in front of him and stacks of chips. And he was playing a bunch of people, but they had all folded except for one other guy. The waitress came over and brought him a drink. He looked up and smiled at her. For a little too long.

The kid was with a better crowd this time. He seemed okay. Well, he wasn't a kid anymore. He had to have been forty, at least. An adult man any way you sliced it.

So Logan decided to approach. He stood several feet behind the table, facing Remy. And just waited. Eventually the guy looked up. Did a double take. And then broke into this huge smile. A big unequivocal smile. He stood up and knocked the chair back. "Logan!" he said, jogging around the other side of the table and holding out his arms. "As I live and breathe." Remy threw his arms around him. Then, before Logan really had a chance to collect himself or come up with any questions, Remy pulled away and turned toward the people at the table. They were craning their necks to see him. "This guy," he told them. "This guy is the greatest fuckin' sack of shit that ever crossed the continental divide. Name's Logan. We go back."

Remy signaled to the waitress and told her he wanted to close out his tab. "I gotta get outta here," he told the people at the table.

"But you're _winning_ ," said the guy Remy had been about to take on. " _Everything_."

"I forfeit," he said, tipping his hat.

They all looked up at him, their mouths open. Before anyone had a chance to say anything, Remy took Logan by the elbow and led him out of the casino. "Logan," he laughed. "Where you been? I can't fucking believe it."

"Me?" Logan said as they strolled down the neon-lit strip. "I should ask you, pal. I heard that you died."

Remy leaned closer to him and slowed down a bit. "Witness Protection." He paused. "But," he said, brightening, "I'm out of it now. Where are you staying? No, don't tell me. Wherever you're stayin', I'm sure it sucks. Now you're with me. I got a penthouse." He stopped and turned to face Logan. "First I'm gonna treat you to dinner. Then I'm gonna treat you to drinks. Then, if you're up for it? I'll treat you to a lady."

Logan chuckled. "I'm with you on the first two."

Remy grinned. "I'm the same way. Don't like to pay for mine. I like to think I do okay on my own, without my wallet." He looked away, excited and overcome with emotion. "Logan, damn."

Remy took him to a restaurant where he seemed to know everyone—the wait staff, the hostess, the manager, the bartenders, and half the patrons. He made the rounds but returned to the table with plenty of time to spare. Leaned back and nursed his drink. "Japan was good?"

"I've been back for a while," Logan said.

Remy smiled. He seemed pleased with himself.

But Logan was curious. "So, this thing that happened to you."

"Ah." Remy set his glass down. "The details ain't important. Boring, actually. I got pinched in Orleans and rolled on a guy. Didn't know he was a cartel guy." He shrugged and gave a half smile. "Sloppy of me."

Logan pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Remy. Remy shook his head and pulled back his shirt collar. He was wearing a flesh-colored patch on his neck. "I made a pact with myself to quit after I got out of rehab. I'm just gettin' around to it."

"Rehab?"

"Barbiturates." He pointed at Logan. "Don't start down that path, _homme_."

"You seem to be doing well, though." Logan looked around at the restaurant.

Remy gave a small smile. "Ain't that just the thing, though."

Logan wanted to slip away and head back to where he was staying, but Remy insisted that Logan stay with him. He had a big room in a hotel. Logan had no idea if he was just staying there or if this was his home. A little bit of both, he guessed. He sat down on the couch.

"I'll sleep on the couch," Remy said. He nodded to the bedroom. "You take the bed in there." Logan protested and Remy said, "Seriously, man. You're my guest. And you look like a person that don't sleep on a featherbed too often. No offense."

Remy sat back in the chair and Logan got a chance to finally study him. There weren't any other people or sights around—no music or drinks or cards or conversation. Yeah, Remy looked older. He didn't look _old_ exactly—in fact, he still looked youthful and anyone who gave him a glance might put him in his early thirties—but he looked like he'd lived. He looked like he'd been tossed around a bit. He'd always seemed haunted—Logan had recognized that look—but gone was the mischief, the charm. He seemed like he was going through the motions.

"I had to move around a lot in the past ten years," Remy said. "Thought of you, though." Stared at him. "Damn, Logan. You ain't changed a bit."

Logan knew this, but hearing Remy confirm it made his heart sink a little.

Remy sensed the change in his mood. "Sorry, dude. I meant it as a compliment."

And most people would take it as one. But not Logan. He longed for a new forehead crease sometimes. Or a couple of gray hairs. Just some evidence that he'd actually lived.

Now he held a near-empty bottle of beer and considered Remy. "Hmm," he said. "Whatever happened to that guy you used to hang with?"

Remy stared at him for a long moment. His expression didn't change, but he seemed to process the question carefully. "We've kept in touch."

"He knows you're alive?"

Remy waited a beat and then nodded. "Oh. Oh yeah. Always did." He inhaled. "He lives in Washington, D.C., now. Has a job at Georgetown or George Washington, I can never remember which."

Logan knew he was being bluffed. "Smart guy," he said.

Remy smiled. Then he looked down. Then he looked back at Logan, no smile. His expression seemed to get serious. And Logan got uncomfortable. Remy didn't seem lonely exactly—no, Logan was lonely and he knew what loneliness looked like. He seemed missing. He seemed to exist somewhere else, and he wasn't fighting to get back to himself anymore.

Logan wondered if Remy didn't want something from him—if the bill for that generosity wasn't finally coming due. But what did he want? He didn't get the impression that Remy wanted sex, not exactly. Remy exuded sex and always had, but this wasn't about sex. The guy wanted something else, something bigger. Intimacy—but the type of intimacy Logan couldn't give. In fact, Logan couldn't deal with this at all. The look on this kid's face said that something was broken, that something had gone very wrong. Logan was ill-equipped to deal with whatever baggage this guy was carrying around.

So he told Remy he needed to go to bed and went into the bedroom. The furnishings were a riot—he would have laughed if he'd been in a better mood. Mirrors on the ceiling, ugly rugs, the whole deal. Very 1970s, he thought. Creepy. Knew he wouldn't be able to sleep too well amid all this weirdness.

And sure enough, he awoke at five and put his clothes back on picked up his bag. He quietly opened the door of his room and tiptoed into the main room. It was dark except for the neon lights outside. From the sofa, LeBeau gasped and rolled over. "What are you doin'?" he asked, his voice grainy with sleep. He sat up. "Leavin' so soon?"

"Got a thing up north," he said. "Favor for somebody."

Remy was quiet and still. "Okay. But leave me your contact information, will ya? You got email?"

"No," Logan said.

Remy paused. "You should get email. It's fuckin' great. Then we could really keep in touch." He stood from the sofa and stretched. Went over to the kitchen and turned on a small light and got a tablet and a pencil.

Logan scribbled the address and phone number of a boarding house where he sometimes stayed in Alberta. Then he adjusted his bag so that it was securely on his shoulder and walked towards the door. Remy walked with him. And asked him to stay for breakfast. But Logan declined. And left.

###

Storm gets up early but Logan's already up. He's already showered. He bends over and kisses her. She doesn't look well rested. "Logan," she whispers. Rogue is still asleep. "Could you get me something to eat? Just fruit or toast or something."

He nods and slips out of the room to do that. When he gets back, the shower's going. She emerges from the bathroom minutes later, dressed and looking better. More in control. She sits on the end of the bed and eats the toast he's brought for her—very slowly. He sits in the opposite chair and drinks his coffee, black. He's brought some coffee for her too. "What time is her appointment?" she asks between bites.

"Nine." He glances in Rogue's direction. She's still sleeping. He doesn't tell this to Storm, but he can tell that Rogue isn't working on her studies anymore. When they were driving out together she didn't crack a single book—very unlike her. He asked her how the research project was coming. "On hold," she said. "For the foreseeable future." And then waited for him to change the subject.

He admires Rogue—always has. He's always felt that she was very brave and plucky. Brave enough to sneak on board his trailer after seeing his claws, and brave enough to argue with him when he found her out. She doesn't defer to anyone. He even thinks she was brave to take the cure. Other mutants called it the coward's way out, but what did they know? Doing something like that—something so irreversible and contentious—took some gall. And then there's the way Rogue goes about her life, never asking for anything, paying her way through college, making her own connections, trying to find her own thing. Kitty and Bobby—yeah, they're brilliant. Yeah, they're talented. But their families help pay for school, and the Institute kicks in some money thanks to Xavier's endowment. They have a lot. But he thinks that they don't possess one tenth of Rogue's resolve and pragmatism. She's always been his favorite. And lately he gets the idea that Rogue is Storm's favorite too.

Rogue finally gets up and readies herself in the early morning light. She can't eat anything because this test requires anesthesia. The mass is deep and hard to get to, the doctors explained. They can't use a local. They have to make an incision. She'll always have a scar.

They get ready and go.

The Cleveland Clinic is the only place in the country with an extensive x-gene research center. One of Jean's old colleagues works there. He's not a mutant himself but he has a mutant wife. He comes out to talk to Rogue while she's the pre-op room. Storm is sitting with her on the cot, holding her and stroking her hair. Logan stands back. The doctor is explaining how they're going to do things. Logan is trying to listen, but whenever doctors talk he finds himself zoning out and then just nodding. This doctor seems nice. Storm is asking questions about how long it will take, who the anesthesiologist is, how long she'll be out, when they'll get the results. Logan just closes his eyes.

They wheel her into the operating room. Storm and Logan decide to go downstairs to the café to wait. They don't eat anything at first. Then Storm gets up and goes and buys a banana.

He sits there, his elbows on the table. She sits next to him and tucks her arm inside his.

"It might not even be the cure," she says. "We don't know. Most people who took the cure are fine."

He looks at her out of the corner of his eyes. "For God's sake, Storm. How many twenty-year-olds get lung cancer?" He hears the harshness in his voice and shakes his head. "Sorry, I'm sorry."

She tightens her hand around his arm. Then touches his wrist. "That might not be what she has. We just have to wait and see." She sets her hand on his shoulder. "We should call her family."

He covers his eyes with his hand. "I don't know."

"We should," she says, squeezing his shoulder. "If I had a daughter—" She lowers her voice. "If I had a daughter and this was happening to her, I'd want to know."

"I've asked her about it. On the trip here." He glances at Storm. "She didn't want to talk about it. She never talks about it. I don't—even I don't know anything about them." He clears his throat. "I get the feeling she just wants us."

"We'll talk to her later. In the meantime," she says, her hand on his back, "you've got to relax. Be strong for her sake. She looks to you, you know, to see how to react to things. She trusts your instincts."

They're in the recovery room when Rogue comes out of surgery. The doctors have already taken away the breathing tube, and Rogue goes in and out of consciousness. Storm strokes her forehead. Rogue wakes up.

"How do you feel, kid?" Logan asks when he's sure that she's opened her eyes.

"Fine," she whispers. She closes her eyes.

"Do you feel sick?" Storm says.

She shakes her head. But a few minutes later she gets sick. The anesthesia. She turns and throws up off the side of the bed, her face clammy and sweaty. Logan lunges for a plastic bucket and a goes to that side of the bed, his hand on Rogue's shoulder. Storm comes forward too, and then stops. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees her turn around and head for the hallway. When he looks over his shoulder, she's gone.

Minutes later, after he's grabbed a nurse and calmed Rogue down, he finds Storm in the hallway near a window, leaning against the wall. "You okay?" he asks, touching her arm. She looks queasy.

"I'll be fine," she says. She leans against the wall as if to steady herself and shakes her head. "When other people get sick, I get sick. It's the one thing that sets me off. Like you and flying." She blinks and leans her head against the wall. "I'll be fine. I just need a minute. Go back to her."

When he gets back to the room and the nurses have gone, he notices that it smells like strong antibacterial something or other. The smell is overpowering. He hates hospitals. He pulls up a chair and sits next to her. She's lying on her back, sinking into the pillow. Her eyes are closed.

"Logan," she says, her voice small and tired. "I just want to go home. Can't we go home now?"

"Soon, kid. These results'll come in a couple of days. Then we'll see what's going on and what they want to do."

She says, "I don't want to wait. I just want to go home already. I just want to be there. The results will be the same whether I'm here or in Westchester."

He picks up on what she's saying, the tone of her voice. She's too young to have that tone. "Just hang on for a few days, sweetheart. We'll get this straightened out." He leans closer to her. "I swear. I swear we'll get to the bottom of this."

"Logan," she says. She touches the top of her chest and turns her head to look at him. Her eyes meet his. "Do you really believe that I'm going to be okay?"

He remembers what Storm has told him—about needing to relax for her sake. And he's not a bluffing man, but at that point he has to be. "Yes," he says, locking eyes with her. "I believe you're going to be fine."


	22. Chapter 22

Remy's ass was in a sling and his arm was in a literal one. He busied himself to keep his mind off of the physical and emotional pain. During the day he read the files Xavier gave him on the Sentinels, and at night, when he was sure the telepaths had gone to bed, he looked for Alex Summers.

Alex Summers was the easy thing. Remy couldn't understand why Scott wanted this kept so hush-hush. The kid was just a college student, hiding in plain sight out West. He thought about taking the intel to Scott and then decided to hold off for a few days. He needed to know what the big deal was.

One afternoon, five days after his run-in with Cassidy, he slipped away from the mansion to make a call from a payphone at a bar in the next town. (He never used the mansion's phones to do business.) He needed to call an associate. Miguel Santos. He needed to do some damage control.

Miguel was a Salvadoran mutant from Newark who ran a chop shop. He had x-ray vision, which helped his work a great deal. He always knew how much car parts were worth and what anyone was packing at any given moment. Remy occasionally sent business in his direction in exchange for favors and intel. "Hey," Miguel said through the phone, "heard you been put outta commission." He lowered his voice. "Heard your ass has been benched for the rest of the season."

"Really," Remy said. He disliked Miguel. He often thought that if the cat had been Dominican he might have had a soft spot.

"Word hits the streets fast, homes. You might as well just pack up and move on. Cassidy's people been braggin' that ole Black Tom himself put a hand up your ass and made a fist." He paused. Remy could hear a lot of mechanical work going on in the background. "You ain't the first and you won't be the last."

Remy stood near the bar's bathroom, trying to hear himself think. He needed to proceed carefully. He needed Miguel on his side. He shifted so that his bad arm was toward the wall. "I heard there's fleet of loaded shit on its way from Motown," he said. "Let's say I know a guy who knows a thing or two about the stops it makes along I-80."

Miguel laughed. "I can't do business with you no more, Gambit. I got a rep to maintain."

"Listen, homes," Remy said. "You owe me."

"And maybe I do. But put yourself in my position, _amigo_. Gambit, you out. Maybe you the next comeback kid. Maybe they put something in the water down in Alabama or wherever the fuck you're from. But I can't wait for that. I got a business to run."

Remy tightened his hand around the receiver. "Listen to me, Miguel. I may be out for now, but there are still a hundred ways I can fuck you and your _pendejo_ associates down in Perth Amboy." Remy glanced up. There were people milling around near the bar, bikers. Working people who had just gotten off. This was a small town, everybody up in everybody else's business. So he switched to Spanish. He mentioned Miguel's _negocios_ in Jersey City—the ones the cops had been sniffing out.

Miguel was silent. "No, you won't do that. You won't dime me in, 'cause then you'll lose whatever street cred you've got left."

"Don't bet your latest shipment on it," Remy said. "If I'm going down, I might as well take you down with me."

Miguel didn't hang up. He sighed. "Tell you what. I'll give you the intel equivalent of a pity fuck and we'll call it even. And this is only because Magneto's people are bad for business. I got no love for my people when my bank account runs dry. _¿Entiendes?_ "

Remy would take it anyway he could get it.

That afternoon he shuffled back to the mansion with a few notes and a book the size of a large toolkit under his good arm. Yeah, the book was the other thing. A couple of days ago, during his third day of convalescence, Jean had found him in the kitchen. He was mopey and depressed. His mood was the sort that would drive another person crazy even if she weren't psychic.

Having one arm in a sling meant that cooking gumbo—or cooking anything—was really fucking difficult. And someone had taken the cayenne pepper and Cajun seasoning from the kitchen. He suspected Jean—she was not fond of spicy food. Remy had a habit of adding seasoning to everything, even cereal. Even to things they all ate together, like pizza. When they weren't looking.

He was pissed. He was working his way through a bland turkey sandwich and thinking about how much everything sucked and how bad everything tasted, and how he wished he had just taken Jean up on her offer of a big Demerol drip.

Then Jean walked into the room and laid a huge book on him. She just fuckin' dropped it on the table. It hit like a sack of sand.

"You need to cool it," she said.

He looked up but kept chewing. "Ma'am?"

"You need to quit manhandling your fractured pride and pull yourself together." She pointed at the book. "This will give you something to do while you recover. And you might find yourself in good standing with the professor. He likes self-starters, educated people." She leaned on the counter. "And who knows? You might actually learn something."

It was a GED book. He looked down at it and stopped chewing. Then, swallowed. Then looked back up at her. Offended. She was calling him uneducated. Yeah, that was just great, Miz Annandale-on-Hudson, Miz "NYU is the poor man's Columbia," Miz Thing. He would have liked to see how far her education and refinement got her in the rat-infested tenement slum he'd once called home in New Orleans.

He and Dan had argued about the high school diploma thing only once. It got contentious. Dan said it was a waste that he never got his education. Remy told him that staying alive had been priority number one during his childhood—fuck book learning; it didn't put food in your mouth. Dan told him that using your lousy childhood as an excuse lost steam by the time you hit your mid twenties, and that he needed to grow up. Remy said being educated wasn't his thing. And Dan asked what his thing was—was he just going to gamble his way through life? And Remy said yes, you bet—write it down, you can quote it. "You're the smartest asshole I've ever known," Dan said, "and also as stupid as every other panhandling Cajun in this goddamn dump." And Remy told him to shove it, but not before telling him to fuck himself. It wasn't the worst fight they'd ever had, but it wasn't a lot of fun, either.

Now he hunched up his shoulders. He was thinking about telling Jean to forcibly insert that enormous fucking book into her anus—to hell with good southern manners. She must have known what he was thinking, but she didn't wince. She just looked at him. "Swallow it and move on," she said. "Prove them wrong. All of them. Make it impossible for Charles to can you."

He stared at her. "He's thinking of doing that?"

She shrugged. "You wouldn't be the first." She brushed past him on her way out of the kitchen.

He thought about using the book as a TV stand, but instead he decided to crack it that night. When he got bored with the Alex Summers project, he went back to the GED book. And vice versa.

Now he found Scott in the empty computer lab. Scott looked up at him through those glasses but didn't say anything. Then he looked back at the computer. Remy staggered into the room, dropped the book on a desk, and sat in a chair. Sighed. "Made a call to a friend in Newark. Got some intel for you."

"Great," Scott said, his eyes still focused on the computer screen. "Leave it there."

Remy looked at Scott and breathed through his nose. "I'd prefer to discuss it."

"Maybe later. I'll talk to the professor first."

Remy took a few more breaths. Then he pushed himself to feet, using his good arm to steady himself. He wanted to say some things. A few of them not so nice. But he was also old enough to know that you couldn't come at a wounded animal head on. You had to come at him slow, and from the side. "Pal," he said. "This dance we're doin'. It ain't good—not for you or for me or for the team."

Scott took his eyes off of the computer and considered Remy.

"I don't care what you think of me," Remy continued. "I know I got you into some deep shit with the professor. But c'mon, _mon ami_ , we can't work like this."

Scott closed a binder on the desk next to him. Then he stood. "LeBeau. This is not about you. I'm just really busy. The kids have SATs coming up soon."

"All three of them?"

Scott opened his mouth and stared at Remy. He didn't know that Remy knew about these things—SATs and shit, and that you only took that test if you were an upperclassman. And right now they had about five high schoolers total, and those kids went every afternoon to the local public school to get the classes that the Institute couldn't offer. He knew more than they gave him credit for.

Scott rubbed his elbow. He shrugged, impassive. It was infuriating. "If you must know, the professor asked that I clear things with him before talking to you about anything team related. New policy. The way it's going to be from now on."

Remy gripped the chair beside him. "Oh Christ Scott, I am about to lose my religion. Don't talk to me like I'm some teenager who needs to go up a weight class in wrestling." He started to go forward and then stopped. "You think you ate shit? I almost ended up with my head on the pointed end of a shillelagh and my nutsack on a float in the goddamn St. Patrick's Day parade." He took a breath. "You lost—what? Your pride? I lost the respect of every goddamn crack-addled contact I had. I got Cassidy's paddy wagon of sinners and shitheads proclaiming from the top of the Empire State Building that my ass is grass, a nice green shade of Emerald Isle peat moss."

"And whose fault is that, LeBeau?"

"It's mine. I own it. But there are things out there bigger than you and me, pal."

Scott pursed his lips. "I'm glad you've finally realized that. This isn't a joke, Remy."

"And I ain't laughing." He shook his head. "Look. You and me been through some times. We just gonna let one bad day sink the whole ship?"

Scott seemed to relent a little. He relaxed his posture. Remy knew he was being forgiven. "I'm still going to have to clear this with the professor," he said. He came over and picked up the notes that Remy had dropped off. "But I'll see if I can't bring you to the table."

And he did. God bless him. In a half an hour, Remy found himself back in the professor's study sitting next to Scott. Jean was there too. The three of them sat on the sofa across from the professor, who sat in his wheelchair on the other side of the coffee table.

"Who is this Miguel?" the professor asked. He stared at Remy.

Remy didn't flinch. "Runs a chop shop in Newark. There are about six warrants out for his arrest."

The professor blinked. "Would he have any reason to lie to you?"

Remy tried not to smile. He was indeed taking this very seriously. But the question! "I could think of a few."

"So the mutants in Spanish Harlem run this civil rights organization," Jean said. "Lucha?" She looked at Scott.

"It means 'the fight,'" he explained.

"It means 'the struggle,'" Remy corrected. "That's the meaning you're looking for in this context."

Scott just turned his head and stared at him. Remy pretended not to notice.

Jean paused and glanced at Scott and then at Remy. Then she continued. "And they're funneling money to Magneto? But why?"

Remy leaned back. "Same old story. Something quote-unquote big is about to go down. I'm sure it's all connected with the Sentinels and shit—" he glanced at the professor—"but I haven't figured it out yet. These people are Morlocks, real dug in. Official story is that they want their civil rights. Untold secrets say they want a bigger piece of the post-apocalyptic pie."

Scott shifted. "If we could get our hands on a copy of this organization's financial records and bank statements we might be able to get a bigger picture of how much money is being transferred and under what guise. That might give us a better idea of how Magneto's people are coming up with so much cash these days."

The professor nodded. "I think that's possible." He looked back in Remy's direction. "Remy, how did you get this information?"

Remy shrugged. "I just asked."

"In exchange for what?"

Oh, so now the guy was going to be a hard-ass. Remy shrugged again. "Nothing." For once, he was telling the truth.

The professor was definitely not convinced, though. He gave Remy a hard look. "You're still going to work from Westchester until we get everything sorted out."

Great. So there'd be no rehabilitating his reputation in time for Christmas.

"Given your history with the Morlocks," the professor continued, "we're going to have to tread lightly. Scott, see if you can get a copy of this organization's financial records. Jean?" He turned to face her. "Do you have to be at the hospital tomorrow?"

She told him she was working all day.

"After work, drop by this organization's headquarters and get a read on them. See what kind of material they're putting out there."

She nodded, but Remy sat forward. "Sir?" he said. "Professor?"

The professor turned back to him.

"I think Storm would fit in better around Spanish Harlem than Jean. Maybe she should go instead." He felt Scott turn to face him, but Jean looked straight ahead.

No one ever made such bold suggestions to the professor—except Scott, maybe. Or Jean, on a good day. But Remy was just a two-bit foot soldier, the newest and lowest ranking member of the team. He certainly didn't get any say.

But the guy didn't miss a beat. "Yes, you're right, but Storm simply isn't ready. Now," he said, backing up his wheelchair. And Remy knew that class was over and he was being dismissed.

He hobbled back downstairs to his room. His light was on; Storm was there. He wasn't in the mood and hoped he could get her to just leave him alone. He didn't even feel like a blowjob.

When he opened his door he found her at his desk. She turned around and smiled broadly. "Remy!"

"Hey, _chere_." He saw that she had his GED book open in front of her.

"I didn't know you were getting your high school diploma. That's wonderful. I can tutor you, if you want."

He shrugged off his jacket. "I don't think it will be necessary." He was looking in his pockets for his cigarettes. Damn. He was out. He lowered himself onto his bed. She swiveled around in the chair. "Professor still has his foot up my ass," he said.

"Yes. That's to be expected." She clasped her hands together. When she talked to him, she always spoke with the alacrity of someone who had worked very hard to lose an accent. He knew what that sounded like because he had worked to lose his own thick, incomprehensible Cajun accent when he'd been disowned by his family and exiled from New Orleans. Upon moving to Baton Rouge—and eventually farther north—he did a lot of listening. He watched the way people moved their mouths, the way they wrapped themselves around certain words. And though he still sometimes slid into that Cajun French craziness—and usually just for the sake of charm—he mostly sounded just plain southern. Storm, on the other hand, rarely let herself slip. She must have grown up trying to imitate Jean, watching the way Jean talked and how she moved.

Now she said, "Your problem is that you don't like authority. If you'd just relax and let the professor handle things, you'd be a lot happier. He knows what he's doing. You should really talk to him about things. You don't let him in. He wants to help you with your issues." She smiled, a little too warmly for his tastes. "Trust him."

"You're probably right," he said. "The professor knows what he's doing. Like, just now, I tried suggesting you for a mission in Spanish Harlem, and he picked Jean instead. He said you weren't ready."

The smile dropped from her face. Good. He had to admit—yeah, this sounds spiteful—that he enjoyed letting the air out of her tires. Now she wasn't in the mood for him. She slowly turned back to his desk and closed his book. Then she stood. Straightened her sweater. He kept his eyes on her, but she didn't bring his gaze to meet his.

"We're going to the bar tonight," she said. "To shoot pool. I want you to come. We play in teams and it's usually Hank and me versus America's sweethearts, but I don't think Hank can come tonight."

That was a relief. When the five of them hit the town together, they attracted a lot of unwelcome attention. Hank acted like it was no big deal—he must have gotten those stares his entire life—but Remy didn't need the extra heartburn. It was hard to slip off to play a hand of poker when the entire zip code saw you walk into a bar with an extra from _Planet of the Apes_.

Now, since Storm and Remy had hooked up, Hank had even more reason to feel like the fifth wheel, the odd man out. There they were, four people with the pretty gene—and then Hank.

Remy didn't particularly care for Hank, but that was because Old Blue didn't seem to trust him at all. He got a feeling that Hank thought he was That Guy. Sure, dude was all smiles, but he had his intellectual pursuits and big words he probably thought Remy couldn't understand. Remy knew that he taught the math and science courses to the kids. He was a little older—Remy's age—but much more mature. (Remy was never mature.) Also, Remy sensed that the guy was carrying a big motherfucking torch for Storm, and that he had been for quite some time. When Remy slid in and snatched her up—just because he was Remy LeBeau and just because he could—Hank must have felt it.

Remy said, " _Chere_ , I can't play pool. Look at my arm."

"I'm sure you'll manage." She went for the door and then stopped. "I just want to warn you that Jean always cheats."

###

Jean told Remy not to drink because he was still healing, but he still managed to buy a Corona when she wasn't looking. He and Scott were checking out the jukebox. Remy wanted to hear some Supertramp and Scott was all in favor of Edie Brickell and New Bohemians or some shit like that. When Scott wasn't looking, Remy slipped in a quarter and ordered up "The Boys of Summer."

They stood there, talking and drinking on either side of the jukebox, struggling to hear each other. The bar was a little crowded. "There's going to be a conference in Washington, D.C.," Scott said. "Next spring."

"Conference?"

"Mutant issues. Legal, cultural, historical, all that. It's a big deal. We want you to be there."

He nodded. So they were letting him back in. He felt something approaching relief. Until that moment, he hadn't admitted to himself how stressful that last five days had been. He hadn't known how much he yearned for their approval and acceptance until he'd been dangerously close to losing it.

He had his part to play: the funny guy, the guy who couldn't take anything seriously, the guy who wasn't really invested in this X-Men shit, good old lovable Gumbo with the ridiculous accent who once went backwards down a ski slope and who put Tabasco sauce in chicken noodle soup. He knew he wasn't a clown, but he'd gladly play one if it meant gaining their favor. They all had their roles—the professor at the patriarchal helm, Jean and Scott playing the adoring children, Hank diddling around in the lab, Storm trying to be like Jean—and Remy goofing off in some inane way: barbecuing in December or blowing up a pine tree or falling asleep in a meeting with his hat over his face. If the tables were turned and, say, Jean was the one who needed his advice on life and human frailty and the professor's moods—well, then the whole structure would collapse.

Thing was, none of them really knew the full extent of Remy's work in the city—how he had to be a different person on the streets. Even Scott didn't see the whole picture. None of them had to keep track of so many personality changes and lies. Good for them. Even he didn't know who he really was, which personality was closest to the truth. He knew that "funny Gumbo" was just an act, but what about staff-wielding Gambit? Was he really nothing but an extortionist—his father's son after all? What about who he had been with Dan? Dan seemed like a long time ago.

Back at the pool table, Jean was cleaning up. She put another ball away.

"Goddamnit, Jean," Storm said. "Quit using your powers."

"I'm not using my powers," Jean said, lining up for her next shot. "I'm just better than you are."

"You're such a cunt."

"Whoa, whoa," Scott said, but he was laughing.

"Ladies," Remy said. He looked at Storm. "Be a lady."

She rolled her eyes and watched as Jean made a next-to impossible shot. "See, that's what I'm talking about," Storm said. "I mean, I could just wind tunnel the ball in, but I've got some decency."

Jean glanced up at her with an expression of amusement. "Decency?" She laughed. She fixed a button on her cardigan and then looked back at the pool table. "It's all about putting a spin on the ball. I've offered to teach you, same as bowling, but you don't want to listen." She leaned over to take another shot and this time the lights flickered a little and a small gust of air overtook the pool table. Jean missed the shot. She looked up. "Ro, I'm warning you."

"Ladies," Remy said again. He came over, carrying his cue with one hand. "Watch Gambit give it a whirl." He leaned forward, propping his stick against the edge of the table, his bad arm still tucked against his chest. Then he gave the stick a little charge.

"Remy—" Scott said.

Remy shunted the stick forward, very slowly. The ball spun quickly, knocking another one into the hole. And then, burst with a small pop. It couldn't really be called an explosion. They all shielded their faces and looked away. Scott came forward and checked out the track the ball had left. "Hell, LeBeau. You pretty much burned a hole in the pool table."

He grinned and shrugged. "Sorry."

Scott smirked. "I have a feeling we'll have to find a new townie bar." He glanced over his shoulder, but so far no one had seemed to notice anything unusual.

"Alright," Storm said. "From here on out, no more powers." She looked at Jean. "I mean it."

Jean started to say something and Remy went for his beer. Then, out of nowhere, a biker with a massive, shaved head strolled over into the middle of their game and sidled up next to Storm. Remy put his beer down. He felt himself tense up.

"Hey baby," the guy said.

Storm pretended not to notice. She picked up her pool stick and leaned forward to take a shot. The guy stayed close to her, his body grazing her arm. Remy straightened and began to make his way over to the other side of the table.

Nervous, Storm missed the shot. By a lot. The guy bent over to say something in her ear. "I think you're beautiful," he said. "Been watching you for a half an hour. I think your friends here are givin' you the runaround."

Remy was there. He came up next to the guy. "Move on," he said. "She's not interested. Nothin' to see here."

Storm straightened, but she didn't move away. She stood there, her back to the guy.

And now he and Remy were about to square off. Scott approached from the side, but his body language told Remy that he was hesitant—he didn't want a fight. He wanted this resolved as smoothly as possible.

"I been watchin' you fucks," the guy said. "I know what you are."

Remy gripped the pool stick. "Yeah, we're folks who paid to rent a pool table for an hour, and you're wastin' our precious time." He looked the guy straight in the eyes. "Leave us alone. Go. Go away." Locked onto him. Yeah, that was it.

The guy's chest seemed to collapse. He turned and slumped back to the bar. Scott and Jean exhaled. Storm glanced over at Remy. She looked kind of annoyed—with him or with the entire situation, Remy couldn't tell.

"I'll settle up," Scott said. "You guys should go out to the car."

They did. Jean sat up front and Storm and Remy sat in the back. No one said anything. Scott came out a few minutes later, got into the car, and started the engine. On the way back to the mansion, no one said a word.

###

Remy worked his way through the GED book. It wasn't as hard as he thought it would be. He had a rich vocabulary, thanks mostly to Dan, and his math ability was sharp from all those years of counting cards. He was just rusty on the history—and he made the mistake of telling Storm. She started lecturing to him from morning until night, quizzing him while he was in the shower or eating or doing his physical therapy with Jean. She talked endlessly about the Romans and the Huns and the French and Indian War and George Washington and the War of Yankee Aggression.

He wanted to kill himself.

He got his arm taken out of the sling but he still wasn't good enough for the danger room. So he arranged a meeting with Lucas Bishop.

He and Bishop went back—all the way back to his early days in New York. Now Bishop worked for federal law enforcement. He'd freelanced for the X-Men years before and still served as a "consultant" from time to time. He met Lucas in the parking lot of a local KFC.

Bishop opened the passenger side door and slid into the car. He was dressed in plain clothes—tee-shirt and jeans and sneakers. No suit. He was a big guy; suddenly the car seemed very small. He looked over at Remy. "If I didn't know you for the swamp rat that you are, I'd be inclined to take offense." He nodded to the restaurant. "Fried chicken, huh? Why do you always ask me to meet you here? Don't tell me this is where you meet all your informants."

Remy passed the bucket of chicken to Bishop. "Lately, yes."

Bishop chuckled and took a wing. "Yeah. Heard that the Irish rode you like a spring-break hooker and hung you up wet."

"One guy," Remy said, looking down at a drumstick. "One guy rode me. Not an entire nation."

"And Xavier wants you chained to the mansion until you hit your mid-life crisis." He laughed. "Shit, things never change."

"It's gonna take some time to rehabilitate," Remy said. "Do damage control. But I'm useless up here in Westchester." He paused. "I need to be back on the streets."

"That's not my problem," Bishop said.

"So what's the word out there?"

Bishop adjusted the seat so that his knees weren't cramped against the dashboard. He rested his elbow on the back of the seat and turned to look at Remy. "It's not the 'out there' that you need to be worried about. Let the streets take care of themselves." He pulled a file from under his arm and handed it to Remy. "Try not to gag on this, deep-throater."

Remy flipped the file open. And started reading. And stopped. Dropped his piece of chicken back into the bucket.

"Holy shit," he said. He looked back at Bishop.

"Be still my heart, I know."

"Where did you get this?"

"Don't ask questions like that. Instead, ask what you and your co-ed friends can do to stop this mess. If anything." He dropped his hand and looked straight ahead. "This was cleared at the highest levels of government, this Sentinel thing. They've got factories all over this country, the biggest in Seattle. But the nearest to us is outside of Boston. What they're planning isn't simple clean-up of whatever shitstorm Magneto's planning. It's genocide."

Remy swallowed. "Lucha?"

"Is raising money for Magneto just as you suspect. But let them go. They're just Morlocks tired of riding at the back of the bus. Stop sniffing there. You got boned by that asshole in Newark. Lucha is nothing but a jerk-off. This," he said, pointing at the folder, "is Xavier's worst nightmare." He paused. "Luckily, you've got a little time. These new Sentinels aren't scheduled to be deployed until 1993. Right now the Berlin Wall is about to fall and the Soviet Union is on its last legs. When the Cold War ends—that's when the fun is going to begin."

Remy raised an eyebrow.

Bishop gave him a look and then started talking. "The worldwide uprisings are going to give mutant populations more freedom to move around—and more inspiration to overthrow their own oppressors." He paused. "And the government will then have a reason to respond. They'll also have more money to divert to these Sentinel projects. Imagine all the money that went to antiballistic missiles in the last ten years, and multiply that by eighty. That's how much the government is sinking into this project." He turned and looked out the window. Sighed and seemed to gather himself. Then he turned back to Remy. "This part—what I'm about to tell you—stays between us. Even Xavier can't know."

Remy leaned forward and nodded his head, just slightly.

"Your signal will be an uprising in a small country on the east coast of Africa. When this happens, everything will go to hell. Everything will be unstoppable. I will probably be dead."

Remy dropped his hand into his lap. He said, "What made you decide to come to me with this?"

Bishop chuckled. "You think you've been boned? I've been boned. I've been taking it up the ass from my bosses in DC. That's why I'm here. To tell you to quit playing local law enforcement. Quit diming people in for petty shit. You're not going to get anywhere that way—you're just going to further alienate the stop-snitchin' crowd. You've always known that mutants can't trust the government—I'm here to affirm your suspicions. I'm here to tell you that everything is connected."

"Then what about you?" Remy said. "You work for these people."

Bishop smirked. "That's just something you'll have to reconcile." The smirk dropped from his face. "You guys are going to have to start playing dirty—Magneto's seen the writing on the wall. He plays on a much bigger field than you people, and if you're not careful, this mess will unfold on his terms. He's got something planned for the mutant conference this spring—I don't know what." He winked. "Your friends might not be capable of acts of mass destruction, but I know you are. Still sleep okay? No bad dreams about the Morlocks?" He paused. "I thought not." He laughed to himself.

Remy closed the file and rested it against the steering wheel.

"On a lighter note," Bishop said, "are you still hitting that African princess?"

Christ. Why did people have to be so tawdry? "Among other things."

"Yeah, well, when she gets tired of you, point her in my direction." He went for the door handle. "Thanks for the fried chicken. Asshole."

"Wait," Remy said. He reached into the backseat and grabbed another folder. "I need your help with something. I just need you to run someone through the system." He handed the folder to Bishop.

Bishop opened it and nodded. Chuckled to himself. "Alex Summers. Otherwise known as Scott's brother." He closed the folder and glanced back at Remy. "I should know better, but I'll see what I can do."

When Remy got back to the mansion he found things in chaos. Now was not a good time to drop his bombshell about Sentinel factories. Jean, Scott, and Storm were in a tizzy because something bad had happened over at the local high school where the students were taking their afternoon classes. They didn't know the details, but apparently one of the students had blown up a locker, and another one, a telepath, had flipped out and locked herself in a classroom.

"We have to get to her before the cops do," Scott said. "Remy, we need you to come with us." They headed for the garage.

He didn't bother with the kids—never spoke to them and kept as far away as possible. Scott and Jean and Storm were like older siblings to the kids—they knew the details of their lives. "I just hope we get to Sage before someone else does," Jean said. "She won't last a night in police custody."

Remy held his staff. "So, what do you want me to do?"

"We'll tell you when we get there," Scott said.

When they pulled up to the school, they found that most of the kids had been evacuated, fire drill style. They were pouring out of the building. Most of them stopped in the street and stared back at the school. There were cop cars there already, pulled up near the building's front doors.

"Fabulous," Scott muttered. "This is why sending our students to public school is a bad fucking idea."

"Actually, she's not on this side of the building anymore," Jean said. "She ran. She's on the third floor, all the way on the other side."

They left the car and dashed around to the other side of the school. Remy looked up at the building. All of the windows looked the same. "There," Jean said and stopped running. She pointed to a window. "Up there. That's where she is."

"We have to get her before the cops secure the premises," Scott said.

"I can get up there quick," Remy said. He grabbed his staff.

He made a few dents in the brick building on his way up to the window. He could feel himself being urged on, steadied. That was Jean. When he got up to the window, she opened it for him. He tumbled inside, head first. Clutched his chest and shook off his pain.

The room was dark. He waited a second for his eyes to adjust. He was in a lab—some kind of science classroom. There were long metal tables affixed to the floor. A projector screen at the front of the room.

The girl was in a corner under a desk. She was crying, her knees pulled up to her chest.

"Kid?" he said. " _Petite_?"

Her crying got louder. He walked over and then knelt down to look at her. She had long brown hair that fell around her shoulders. "Hey darlin', we're here to take you home. Mr. Summers is outside. All your teachers are. They're worried, sweetie."

She stopped crying for a short moment, but her breath still caught in her throat. "Mr. Summers is going to be so pissed."

"No, no, hon. Nobody's pissed. Just come with me." He held out his hand.

She sniffled. "I just want people out of my head, Remy." She started crying again, burying her head in her hands.

So she knew his name. He'd never once spoken to this girl, never even introduced himself. But she still knew who he was and still felt comfortable enough to call him by his first name. He wondered what else she knew about him.

She looked up again. "I don't want to take the SAT tomorrow."

"Oh," he said. He couldn't help but smile. "I know how you feel, _petite_. Dr. Grey is up my ass about taking a test too." He stopped for a second. Was 'up my ass' appropriate conversation for a seventeen-year-old? Probably. It was probably right on target.

She studied him. Then nodded. It occurred to him that she was probably reading his mind enough to know that he was telling the truth. "I just don't want to let Mr. Summers down," she said, her voice soft.

Remy almost laughed. She thought that she let Mr. Summers down? Teenagers. They had no idea of what it was to really disappoint someone. He wanted to tell her that as soon as Mr. Summers saw what Remy had to show him, he wouldn't be thinking about the SAT anymore.

"You won't let anybody down," Remy said. "Trust me. They just want you to be safe." He gathered her in his arms and led her to the window. He helped her climb through it, and Storm summoned some wind to cushion her fall. He watched as Storm and Jean rushed over to embrace the girl. Then he jumped out and landed on his feet just yards away from them. His shoulder ached, but he'd be okay.

###

Xavier spent the afternoon bailing out the other kid, the one who had blown up the locker. That evening his study became ground zero, the sight of a dramatic discussion—maybe the touchiest discussion Remy had seen during his time at the mansion.

Scott said they should just pull the kids out of the public school and have them go to Xavier's full time. Xavier disagreed. He felt that the students needed to be mainstreamed. They weren't always going to live their lives around mutants—they needed to be able to deal with people who weren't like them.

Scott said that integration was a nice goal was all well and good in theory, but in practice the students just couldn't handle it.

And the professor brought up the even more practical aspect: that they simply didn't have the resources and teachers to handle full-time students.

Jean leaned forward. "I decided something recently." She looked at Scott and the professor. "I love teaching. I love it more than anything—more than being a doctor. I want to pull back at the hospital so I can teach full time here at the Institute."

Remy, who was leaning against the desk, outside of this little circle of faculty trust, crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked up. Storm turned to stare at Jean.

"No," the professor said. "That's out of the question."

Jean didn't move. "Why?"

"Because you have spent your entire life trying to be a doctor," the professor said. "A doctor who helps both people and mutants alike. And I'm not going to sit here and allow you to sacrifice that dream, not when you've already sacrificed so much."

Now Jean sat up. "But it's my sacrifice to make."

For once, Remy actually agreed with the professor. He didn't want to see old girl give up her career.

But Scotty Boy nodded. "She's right, professor. It's her choice. We might not agree, but we have to respect it."

Remy could tell the professor was about to shit a brick. Dude's face went a pale shade of red. He looked like he was going to choke. "It's not an option." His voice was quiet and low.

Jean bent forward. "It was for Hank. Why is one thing okay for Hank and not okay for me? Why, because Hank looks different and I don't? That's what this has always been about."

The professor seemed to buckle. He held up his hand and looked away.

Remy knew he had to deflect attention. This was about to be a bloodbath. He sat up and looked at them. "The kid's just gummed up about taking that test tomorrow," he said. "That's all that happened. Maybe you should hold off on making her take it for right now. Give her some space."

Scott's head swiveled around. "Excuse me?"

"Hey, I'm the one who pulled her out. She told me all about it."

Scott said, "Sage is the brightest student we've ever had at the Institute. We can't coddle her simply because she had a small breakdown today. The kids have to learn that their mutations are not an excuse." He looked back at the professor and Jean. "She's going to do just fine on the SAT. If her practice tests are anything to go by, she'll probably blow it out of the water."

"And that's what I'm talkin' about," Remy said. "I think maybe you should lower your expectations." When Scott didn't say anything, Remy kept talking. "Maybe you push these kids too hard. They're just kids. When I was their age I was pickpocketing tourists and dropping acid. They ain't doin' so bad in comparison." He paused. "They might find their own way better if you let go of the reins a little more. Lighten up."

Jean and the professor were completely pokerfaced, but Storm held her hand over her mouth to hide a smile.

Scott laughed too, but the laugh was both exasperated and entertained. "Thanks for your input, Remy. I didn't know that studying for your high school diploma had made you a sudden expert in child psychology."

"Scott!" Jean said.

"That's uncalled for," the professor said at the same time.

Remy moved around the other side of the desk to grab his bag. He reached past the gigantic GED book and pulled out the file. Then he walked over and dropped it in Scott's lap. "I hope you still have your sense of humor after reading this, college boy."

###

The mood in the professor's study went from tense to funereal. Bishop's file lay open on the coffee table in front of them. Hank was now with them, sitting next to the professor.

"We knew there were factories," the professor said. "But not to this extent."

"An executive order," Scott said, picking up a piece of paper. "To commence round-up and extermination. Christ." He looked up at Remy. "I had no idea that this went so high up."

Hank looked up. "It's a certainty that Magneto also has this information."

Remy nodded. "Bishop says he's planning something for the conference in DC. He just doesn't know what." He cleared his throat. "Maybe that's the 'something big' we've been hearin' about all these months."

"That's our first priority, to figure that out," the professor said. "A lot of mutants in the same place is bound to cause some discomfort for people. Luckily we have some time to untangle this before the conference takes place."

"Registration has already begun," Jean said. They sat there and looked at each other. They were all registered mutants—every single one of them. Whether or not the students were—well, that was another question.

Remy slumped against the desk, his hands in his pockets. The entire thing was a buzz kill. It sucked. It sucked to wake up in the morning and realize that the world wanted you dead. This little Sentinels gig made Stryker's project look like a humanitarian package drop.

After the meeting, Remy retreated from the study and went to the kitchen to slum around. The kids were all in bed.

Jean found him. She stepped into the kitchen and put her hands on her hips. "I signed you up to take the GED the day after Thanksgiving. Even if you're not quite ready, I'm sure the experience itself will be very helpful."

"Great," he said. What a way to kick off the holidays. He got up from the bench and grabbed his book and pointed himself in the direction of the backdoor.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Outside. To study." He glanced back at her.

She creased her brow. A line appeared between her eyes. "It's dark outside. And cold."

"Exactly," Remy said. "Why not put myself in the right mood to learn about photosynthesis?"

She shook her head. And then her expression got very dark. "You have such a goddamn martyr complex, Remy."

He stopped and turned around. "Me! I'm not the one who blew a fortune the size of a small country's economy on school only to think about giving it all up. Now if you'll excuse me, ma'am." He spun on his heels and headed for the backdoor.

He still hadn't forgiven her for believing that he was uneducated.

###

He took the GED in one bang—one big eight-hour sitting. He thought he did okay. There were two questions he had no clue about—one of them about convection and the other about Roger Williams—but everything else seemed to come naturally. He used the quadratic formula. He plotted x's and y's on an axis. He blew through the grammar section in a record number of minutes. The essay question asked him about his goals for life. He wrote that he wanted to be more organized.

Around the mansion he worked on some things. Scott and Storm had managed to bug the Hellfire Club, so Remy listened to hours and hours of tape, most of it useless and boring. They weren't looking in the right places. Still, he knew he wouldn't be able to get back down to the city until after New Year's.

They prepared for Christmas. He figured that Jean would go back to see her folks, but instead she wanted to stick around and cook Christmas dinner.

He haunted the kitchen while she cooked. When she left for a minute, he pulled the lid off the gravy, stirred it and tasted. God, it was terrible. So bland. Yeah, Annandale-on-Hudson thought she could cook. That was cute. He reached for the cayenne.

The second time he blew through the kitchen she had the oven open. There was a pot of potatoes on the stove. He went for his seasoning and lifted the lid. Then the lid slammed shut. "Don't even think about it," she said. She straightened up and closed the oven and turned around to face him. "You already ruined that gravy."

"Ruined? What?" He kept trying to pull the lid. " _Chere,_ come on."

"Out, Remy."

"This ain't even a Christmas dinner. Where's the oyster loaf?"

She pushed him out of the kitchen with such force that she didn't even need to use her powers.

He got his results the day after Christmas. Jean brought the mail in and called for him. She stood on the stairs holding the banister while he slowly and calmly tore open the envelope. He read the letter and glanced at the score sheet, and then folded them and put them back into the envelope. He tucked the envelope into his shirt pocket. Now he'd go downstairs and relax for a while. Or listen to some more Hellfire Club tapes.

"Remy," she said. "Aren't you going to tell me?"

He looked up at her. "Can't you just read my mind?" He shrugged. "I passed." He started to turn away, but his poker face failed him. A smile played on his lips.

She noticed. "What? What did you get?"

He stopped and pulled the envelope out of his pocket and gave it to her. She read the letter and the results and then looked at him. Then she looked back at the results. Then she looked at him again. Then she tore away, calling for Scott and Storm and the professor.

He'd gotten a perfect score, the only perfect score in the entire state in the last three years. (When he thought about it, he often figured that the competition wasn't too keen—it was just the GED after all, not the bar exam.)

Scott congratulated him right there in the hallway and gave him a big hug. He read Remy's letter and decided to hang it and his scores on the bulletin board in the front hallway. "That's a great thing for the kids to see, very inspiring," he said. "It shows that it's never too late to turn things around."

Remy just stared at him. Then he burst out laughing and turned away. He looked at Jean and rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

The professor said, "I can't say that I share your friends' surprise, Remy. Congratulations. Wonderful news."

And Storm said, "You know what this means? This means we have to throw a party."

So they did. Storm and Jean went out and bought cake, pizza, ice cream, streamers, and punch. The kids made a sign that said _Congratulations Remy!_ and hung it in the foyer. Everything was embarrassing and ridiculous. Scott even toasted him, raising a cup and talking about how you could succeed if you just put your mind to it. He sat there, wishing for a cigarette. He also wanted a beer, or a tall glass of Southern Comfort. This was not his idea of a party—twelve-year-olds twirling around, cookies and fruit punch.

(For his thirtieth, Dan had thrown him a huge bash. He'd practically rented out the Garden District for him. Remy didn't like to think back to this memory, though, because it reminded him that he had missed Dan's thirtieth, which had taken place last year.)

Sage came over and congratulated him. She'd made him a little card and she gave him a hug. He felt bad—bad because his GED results had overshadowed her own good news: she'd earned a perfect score on her test as well. She told him she had applied early decision to Harvard.

Still, all this—all this shit—it was okay. It was a good memory in the making. In two years' time, he'd look back and wonder how he had ever been so happy, so carefree. And when he was out there on his own or among enemies, he'd think about this: the Christmas dinner, the scores, the streamers, the punch, Scott's little toast. He'd wonder how things had ever seemed so singular, so simple, so pure.

Later that night when he figured everyone had gone to bed, he went back into the main hallway and looked at his scores as they hung on the bulletin board. He took them down. He didn't want them posted anymore. What he really wanted to do was send them to Dan, to his address in Minnesota. Dan would have gotten such a kick out of this—Remy's perfect fucking score, his party with pre-teens. He laughed for a minute. Then, stopped.

In the kitchen, he turned on the light over the sink. He took out his lighter, stood in front of the sink, and lit his letter and scores. He held them there, watching the flames eat everything up, and then stuffed the ashes in the garbage disposal and ran the water. He stood there for a moment, his hands on his hips. Then he turned to go into the hallway.

Jean stood in the doorway, her arms folded in front of her chest, her chin pointed downwards. Her eyes were sad.

He turned and headed for the other doorway. It wasn't until he saw her that he realized that he, too, was sad.

 


	23. Chapter 23

In the evening, Storm finally gets a chance to call Remy to see how things are going back at the mansion. She and Logan have finally left the clinic. Rogue is being kept in the hospital overnight.

She sits at the end of the bed. Logan is on the other bed, watching TV, flipping between CNN and a college basketball game.

"Hey _chere_ ," Remy drawls. "How's the little girl doing?"

"Holding her own," Storm says. "They took most of the mass when they did the biopsy. Now we're just waiting for the results, which should be back in a few days."

There's silence on Remy's end. Then she can hear something that sounds like clanking. She decides not to ask. "How's Logan?"

She glances over at Logan. His elbows are resting against his knees and he's bent toward the TV. But she knows he's listening to every word she says. "As well as can be expected."

"So have you told him? What was his reaction?" More clanking.

She clears her throat. "It's kind of a bad time."

"Ain't never gonna be a good time, _chere_. Well," he says, sounding resigned. "At least you're with him. At least he's not alone."

She studies the back of Logan's head. "Yeah."

"Oh, is he right there?"

"Mm-hmm." She waits a second before speaking. "So how are the kids? Did everything run smoothly today?"

He hesitates. His words catch a little. "More or less."

"Good." That's all she wants to know. She doesn't want to dig any deeper—not at this minute. The day has been too long and too agonizing to hear about any Institute drama. As long as no one got lost in a snowstorm or arrested, she considers Remy's babysitting skills a sufficient success. (The same way she used to feel about Logan's.)

"Well," he says. "I debated with myself about whether or not I should tell you this, _chere_." She can hear him take a deep breath. "Mrs. Rumplestick walked off the job today."

She pulls herself to her feet. "Why?" she says. It comes out like a sigh.

"I don't know. Don't know what happened. Something to do with Artie. There was a little tussle or something. By the time I got there, it was too late to fix."

She sighs again. Logan turns around, a questioning look on his face. His eyebrows are cocked. "Fantastic," she says. "Okay, just hold things together a little longer. I might be here a few more days. I'm going to see if I can call her and get her to reconsider. In the meantime, put Danielle in charge of study hall. You know who Danielle is?"

She hears crackling in the background. "Yeah. No problem, Storm."

She turns away from Logan and faces the door. She decides to ask a question she knows she'll regret. "Remy, what are you doing?"

There's a slight pause. More crackling. Sizzling. And then Remy says something that sounds like "barbecuing."

"Barbecuing?" She turns to look at Logan, who is glancing back at her and struggling to turn the volume down on the TV at the same time. "Remy, it's eighteen degrees outside."

"This is the thing I wasn't gonna tell you at all. I was gonna leave this till you got home."

"I don't want to ask."

"The cook walked off the job, too. Yep." He exhales. "It was chicken patty night, everyone's favorite. So I said I'd make it up to them by grilling hamburgers and hotdogs. We're gonna have a picnic with the snowmen."

"Why did the cook leave, Remy?"

She turns back in Logan's direction. He's turned his body so that he is no longer facing the TV. He's looking at her.

"Some folks just don't like cats," Remy says. He explains something about the cat getting into something and hiding in the cupboard and jumping out at the cook. It sounded kind of grisly.

"Um, okay." Storm paces a bit. "Is there anything else you want to disclose?"

"No, ma'am."

"Just keep everything in one piece. I'll call you later." She hangs up the phone.

Logan just stares at her.

"We lost our math teacher. We lost our cook. We may have a worker's comp claim on our hands." She shrugs. "Remy's now doing the cooking. He's using the grill. He's grilling outside."

Logan stands from the bed. "Jesus Christ. What are we going to do about it?"

"Mrs. Reurmpalwise was a disaster anyway, but I'm going to call her and the cook to get them to reconsider. But tomorrow, not tonight." She stands there and holds her arms open.

He always asks what they're going to _do_. She usually does too. But tonight she's tired—she's so tired. Her muscles ache. As long as the mansion doesn't burn down, she can't get excited enough to break a sweat. Rogue's prognosis and her own pregnancy have her selfish about conserving her energy levels. The worst thing that can happen is that some of the more vigilant parents will figure out that the headmistress and her coarse-looking "assistant" (whom they probably suspect is a live-in boyfriend) have gone absentee, and that a strip club frequenting gambling hurricane refugee with a questionable past and a criminal record has been put in charge of their children. (Remy is indeed an ex-con; he did a stint at Rikers. Felonious assault. It's public record. He won't tell you much about it, but if you get him drunk enough, and if he's in the right mood, he'll show you his tattoo. He was, of course, marked.)

These parents are a constant pain in her life. Most are distressed by their children's mutations; they believe in good old fashioned self-reliance and the idea that a private education in upstate New York will help their children to overcome their "obstacles." Most have ridiculously high expectations. She constantly gets phone calls about the school's performance—questions about when she'll be adding a language immersion program or why little Joey still has to go to Croton Falls to take violin lessons. She wonders how these parents will react when they discover that she's been knocked up by the assistant. Maybe they'll pull their children out of the school. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Fewer paying students mean less tuition money—but also less need for special teachers and a cutting-edge curriculum. They'll raise money the old fashioned way: by leaning on alumni. She and Logan can go back to focusing mostly on the runaways, the kids who won't care whether or not their headmistress is a loose woman, or that Logan's teaching credentials have always been somewhat dubious. Those kids need them most.

"One of us should go back," Logan says. "If that was his first day babysitting? I'd hate to see what the second day looks like."

She wants to remind him that his first day babysitting ended with soldiers breaking into the mansion and stealing children—but that's unfair.

"He'll be fine," she says. "He'll have fun cooking. It'll be good for them—probably clear their sinuses." She walks over and sinks onto the bed.

Logan looks down at her. He rubs his chin and studies her. He's puzzled—puzzled she hasn't gone into emergency mode yet. They're both controlling people—a common trait that both infuriates them and helps them to understand each other. But now Logan is alone in his anxiety and unable to comprehend why Storm is so nonchalant. "I don't know, Storm." He drops his hand and glances at the door. "I'll fly back tomorrow morning. You stay with Rogue. You're better at this doctor shit than I am."

She stares at him. "You need to stay here for Rogue. If anyone needs to go back, it's me. But I'm not going back right now." She shakes her head. She's not going back. She flew out here just to be with him. She needs to be near him right now.

He turns and looks at his bag. "I'm packing my stuff so I can leave early. You can drop me off at the airport tomorrow and then go be with Rogue. I'll hire a new cook—that's something I can do. As for the math teacher." He shakes his head. Then he moves to his bag and starts refolding the few items of clothing he's brought. "When things are squared away with Rogue, I'll fly back here and we'll all drive home together."

She gets up from the bed very slowly. She approaches him and sets a hand on his arm. He stops shoving clothes into his bag. "Logan," she says. "I need you to stay."

He folds a pair of socks. "The school."

"Will be there tomorrow. And the next day."

He finishes with the socks and shoves them into his bag. "I'm going to call the airlines right now and see what kind of a flight I can get."

She steps away and puts her hand on her forehead. Then just says it. "Logan, don't go again." She opens her eyes and looks right at him. "Not now."

He turns his head to take her in. Then he sighs and drops his arms. Tosses his bag back onto the stand and turns away. He stands there with his hands on his hips and looks down at the carpet. She can hear him breathing.

He's hurt. She's hurt him.

She says, "Logan."

He turns his head to glance at her, just slightly. Then he turns away again. Scratches his forehead and closes his eyes.

"Logan—"

He moves to the closet and takes out his jacket and slips it on. He doesn't look at her. "I'm going for a walk," he says. "I'll be back later."

###

So, she goes to bed early but doesn't sleep. She watches the shadows move and waits. She is waiting for him and doesn't even pretend that she's doing anything else. Maybe he deserved what she said. Maybe he didn't. In any case, she's sorry. It wasn't a good time. It's never a good time.

He comes back around eleven. He's quiet with the keycard, but she sits up and turns the light on and watches as he walks into the room. He's carrying a plastic bag. He looks at her as if to confirm that she's still there and still awake. Then he slips out of his jacket. Then he comes over and sits down on the bed. Next to her. He says, "I always wanted to go to Cleveland in February."

"Where did you go?"

"Bookstore."

He's a voracious reader—it's something she knows about him that few other people realize. He doesn't advertise the fact that he reads. When he's not coaching or working or gardening or running around in the danger room, he spends time in the library. Alone. He seems to need a lot of time alone—he needs space. Unlike her, he hasn't spent most of his life in close quarters with other people. He was often traveling alone, wandering, trying to figure things out. He must have gotten used to entertaining himself with books and ideas and crossword puzzles and other solitary pursuits.

She remembers the day, a month after Alcatraz, that they cleared out the room where Scott and Jean had once lived. Jean's stuff was all still there—Scott certainly hadn't gotten rid of anything. It was a pain-in-the-ass task they'd both been dreading, but it had to be done in time for the new school year. She wanted to convert the room into a quad. And she wasn't going to do it herself. "I'm not going to do it myself," she told him.

"Hmm," he said, looking up at her. And didn't say anything else.

They went in and threw everything away. Clothes, shoes, personal effects. They didn't even bother to donate anything, didn't care about tax deductions and charity, the fact that other people might need these things. They just wanted the stuff gone. Scott had left the room sloppy and pulled apart; bed unmade, student files left in weird places like the windowsill or under the TV stand. Some of things she needed for the school—purchasing receipts, for instance, and educational DVDs—and she took them, but the taking felt guilt-tinged. Like she was taking spoils.

Then she noticed Logan gathering up the books. "Were these his?" he asked, pointing to a stack of paperbacks on the table. "Or do they belong to the library?"

She was busy shoving half-empty bottles of aspirin and lotion and eye-drops into a trash bag. "I don't know."

He started sifting through them. "Well, we should take them down and put them in the library. Maybe someone will read them." He got to one book and held it up. "We'll throw this away, though." He showed it to her and gave her a guarded smile. _The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Teens_. "Leave it to this guy. Teens aren't supposed to be highly effective at anything. Except maybe fucking up."

"Logan," she said. She stopped throwing things away and looked at him. He was serving up his usual sarcasm, but she knew him well enough by now to recognize that it was an act. Self-protecting. He was trying to hide the fact that this macabre task was getting to him; he was thoroughly creeped out. "Just finish the job."

He turned back to the table. "I'm sure Scott was always highly effective."

She thought about just telling him to leave the room so she could finish in peace, but she thought better of it. She started to empty Jean's junk drawer. (Jean always kept a lot of junk around.) "Not as a teenager. He was actually kind of a hot mess." She paused for a moment and then smiled to herself. Scott's post-Three Mile Island years had been fraught with rebelliousness and behavior problems—classic PTSD shit. Truancy. Sneaking out. Marijuana. He'd been a real headache for the professor. Then one day he'd just pulled it together. Started dating Jean, their slightly older friend whom they had watched break a district-wide track record and get accepted to a slew of east coast colleges. Scott got motivated once she let him into her life. And in college he got all hyped-up on civil rights talk—the same tenets the professor had been trying to instill in him since he'd first come to the mansion.

"Really," Logan said, but in a tone that was both knowing and superficially bored. He wasn't asking anything—he didn't want to know anymore.

"We'll pack up Jean's jewelry and send it to her family," Storm said.

He continued to stare at the books on the table. "I could drop it off," he said. "If I'm up in that direction."

She stopped throwing stuff away and raised an eyebrow.

"But I don't know why I would be," he put in quickly. He gathered all the books together and put them outside of the door.

When he came back, she was going through the last of Scott's files. Then she saw it—the catalogue from a pricey jewelry store in the city, open to the ring section. A ring was circled in the middle of the page, but she didn't want to see what it looked like. She folded the catalogue in half and went to throw it away. She had known that Scott and Jean were thinking about getting married, that they'd finally put aside their scruples and their ideological concerns and had just decided to make it legal. This was after Liberty Island—it changed them. That last mission—the last big mission they'd all emerge from alive—put things in perspective. Scott and Jean seemed to sense they weren't kids anymore, that they might not always walk away unscathed.

Storm had offered to help Jean with the wedding planning—even though weddings were her least favorite thing—but Jean had said that they were going to do it on the cheap. Now it looked as though Scott had been about to buy something expensive. She was glad. She stuffed the catalogue into the trash bag.

"What was that?" Logan said.

God, the man had a sense about him. He must have detected some barely-perceptible change in her mood. He was the next-worst thing to a telepath. "Nothing," she said. She tied the bag and straightened. And then said this in a tone that was breezy and neutral: "You know, Logan, if you want to go, then just go."

He stood there, arms against his sides. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You don't owe us anything," she said. "In fact, you've helped out a great deal. If you just want to go back to being on emergency stand-by, that's fine. That's more than enough." She walked over and set the bag with the other full trash bags. "But I appreciate everything. A lot."

He moved past her and went to the window. He sat on the windowsill and looked outside. Then inhaled sharply and turned his head to look at her again. "When does school start?"

"Next week."

He turned back to the window and nodded. "I'll stick around for that. After that, we'll see."

She shrugged. "This is the thing, Logan. The kids. I don't want them to get attached and then have to watch you leave. They've already been through a lot in terms of the professor. They have to reconcile the knowledge that their former teacher killed the headmaster and another teacher. I—" She stopped. "You have to understand how fragile they are."

"They seem okay."

She shot him a look. "Are you?"

His eyes locked onto hers. "Yes. I am. How are you holding up?"

"Fine," she said.

"Good. Then we're all fine." He turned back to the window. "I hear you. I hear you, Storm." He got up and walked past her and left the room.

She figured he'd leave then. And she wouldn't have blamed him. She wouldn't have held anything against him—honestly. I mean, after all, why would a guy like Logan stick around an east-coast boarding school? He'd been a prizefighter; he looked like someone who ached to be out west working a ranch or riding a motorcycle along a speed limitless stretch of Idaho highway—not like someone who'd want to be cooped up around kids all day.

But on the first day of school she found him in the rec room with five kids circled around a table, helping them line up their classes. After dinner—steak tips, which she hated—she asked him what his plans were. "I may have to cut out at Christmas," he said. "I may go see Remy LeBeau. But other than that, I really don't have a lot going on."

But winter break found him coaching the girls' basketball team.

And that's how they ended up here. They've never really aired their feelings. And they don't intend to start now. He says, "I was thinking about Rogue's family. Maybe we should talk to her tomorrow about getting some information."

"Okay," she says. "I just hope it won't upset her."

He puts a hand on the back of his neck. "How did she seem to you today?"

Storm thinks that Rogue seemed awful—the worst she'd ever seen her. "Not good."

He steals a glance at her. "No, I mean, how did she _seem_. Like—" He holds his hand out. He's reaching for something.

She leans closer to him.

"I don't think she's fighting," he explains.

She touches his shoulder and pulls him toward her. He seems to recognize right away that she's trying to hold him and he leans into her. She runs a hand through his hair. "She's fighting," she whispers against his temple.

"She's not working on school things anymore," he says.

"That's because she's working on trying to live."

His eyes are closed. "How did this happen?" he says. "When did it happen?"

"It happened so suddenly," she says, her hand pressed against his cheek. "She was fine at Thanksgiving."

He pulls away slightly so that he can look at her. "She wasn't, though. She hasn't been okay in a long time. Storm. We let this go too long. We weren't vigilant enough. _I_ ," he says, "wasn't vigilant enough."

"You need to stop thinking that," she says, pulling at him again. "Things might have been wrong with her, but she wouldn't let us see. I think she's kept a lot from us in the past two years. That's not our fault and not her fault—it's just what happened." She grabs his hand. "You need to stop talking about this like it's over. Let's just see what the results say. We have to stay focused."

He keeps one hand over his eyes and nods and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. Calms himself down. When she's sure he's okay, she reaches for him. Pulls him onto the bed. Their movements at first are hurried and desperate. Then they slow down. They both seem to know what the other needs—they always do. They need this, despite everything. They need to affirm each other. They don't make any noise even though they're in a hotel now, not the mansion, and no one knows them.

He sleeps soundly that night. She awakes before he does and is sick. She tries to hide it from him, slipping off to the bathroom in the dark. She's rinsing out her mouth when he knocks on the door and calls to her. She opens it and he asks if she's okay.

"Something I ate," she says, moving back to the sink to reach for her toothbrush. "I'm fine."

"What did you eat?"

She hadn't eaten since the day before. "Probably the hospital cafeteria food is what did it. I don't think it's a virus or anything. I feel okay otherwise."

He stands in the doorway and studies her. He considers her. He mulls. He's probably thinking a lot of things right now, but he isn't going to let himself articulate or entertain any of them. He can't remonstrate with his thoughts at this moment. He decides to let this go. He reaches over and touches her shoulder before going back into the other room.

###

On the way to the hospital to see Rogue she makes two calls: one to the math teacher and one to the cook. Mrs. Reurmpalwise is not coming back—ever—but the cook is open to the idea. He just wants a bigger salary package and better health benefits. She agrees before realizing that he could still sue the shit out of them anyway—she should have really discussed this with a lawyer. She doesn't tell this to Logan as she hangs up the phone.

"Well," she says, "we're still out a math teacher."

He grips the steering wheel. "What about Kitty? Couldn't she fill in?"

Storm puts her cell phone in her purse. "I don't want her to do that, Logan. In fact, I don't want her or Bobby or Jubilee or Peter coming around to the mansion any more than they absolutely have to."

He glances at her, questioning.

She explains. "I want them to just enjoy being college kids for now. I want them to have lives and friend in other places." She lowers her voice. "It goes so fast."

"But they seem to love coming over."

"They need to leave the nest for a while. If they want to come back in a few years, that's another matter. But for right now? I'm looking at recruiting a summer intern. Maybe someone for the fall, too." She waits for a moment. "The kids can still train in the danger room. But I don't want them to get sucked into this before they see what else is out there."

Logan's gaze flickers over to her. "Is that what the professor did with you guys?"

"He tried," she admits. "I think he wanted to nudge us out but he didn't have the heart to tell us to just get gone." She looks out the window. "I do. I have it in me to kick them out. All of them."

They find Rogue at the hospital. She's sitting up in bed, and she looks better than she did the day before. She looks weak but rested. "I just want to get the hell out of here," she says with a half smile.

"I don't think we should rush things, kid," Logan says.

"I can't imagine what it's costing to keep me here," she says. "I want to go home."

"Soon now," Storm says. She sits on the side of the bed and decides, very delicately, to broach the topic of Rogue's family.

The smile drops from Rogue's face. She becomes visibly upset—her eyes cloud over. Her shoulders tense. She shakes her head rapidly as Storm talks. "Please don't ask me about it."

Storm reaches out to touch Rogue's arm. "Honey, they're your family. Whatever happened—I'm sure they're thinking about you and would want to help."

She stops shaking her head and looks up at Storm, her eyes wet. Then she turns her head to the side. She's crying. "I know I've been, like, a burden to you guys. I feel really bad." She thinks that they're looking to cut her loose, to lay her back onto her family.

"Hey," Logan says. "You're not a burden. There's nothing to feel bad about. We just think your parents would want to know what's going on."

Storm knows it's time to close out the conversation. It didn't go well; Rogue is now upset and feeling like Logan and Storm don't want to take care of her. "We don't have to make any decisions now."

Rogue looks up at them again. "Maybe when I get the results back?"

The day passes slowly. It's boring. They talk about what's going on at the mansion—Storm tells Rogue about Remy and the math teacher and the barbecue—and they watch TV and Logan reads and Storm gets up to get something to eat and they watch Rogue eat awful hospital food. The other bed in the room is empty. The nurse comes in sometimes. A candystriper too.

In the afternoon Remy calls Storm's cell phone. She answers.

"So, there's a kid here," Remy says after giving his usual Cajun salutation. "Says he just ran away from a foster home. Seems pretty torn up too."

Storm pinches the bridge of her nose. Usually there's a lengthy intake process for runaways, but she's not there to initiate the course of action. "How old?"

"Hold on a sec." She can hear muffled talking. "Fourteen."

"Okay," she says. "Put him in with Jones and Manny. It'll be tight, but they'll just have to deal with it. There's an extra cot in the basement." She pauses, thinking. "If you can't find it, then just put him up in the emergency single." She generally does not like to put new students in the emergency single—she knows they shouldn't be alone. "Did anything else happen today?"

"Everything went smooth as butter," he says. She can hear him smiling. "Lots of good learning going on. Books open, pencils ready, notes being taken. All that."

Which means that no learning is going on. 

Rogue gestures to Storm. She wants to say hi. Storm hands the phone over.

Rogue says hi and then listens. Then she breaks into a laugh. "Yeah, yeah, better," she says. She laughs again. Then quiets her voice. "Yeah, me too." She glances up at Storm and then looks down, smiling furtively. "I don't know."

Storm can't imagine what's being said. She decides to not think about it. It's not worth the speculation.

"Really," Rogue says now, sounding surprised. "Wow." Then she giggles again. "I'm glad to know."

The conversation goes on for several minutes, maddening in its one-sided coyness. Finally she hands the phone to Logan.

He listens. "I don't think _Saving Private Ryan_ is a good choice for movie night," he says. "It's a little violent." He listens some more. "No, I know it's educational, but—okay, not that either." He pauses. " _Schindler's List_? What is it with you and World War II these days?" He's quiet again. "Okay, _Legally Blond_ it is then. No—I've told you we're not getting Netflix." He looks over at Storm and rolls his eyes. Says goodbye in French and tells Remy to make sure the doors are locked after five. He hangs up the phone and shakes his head. He stands to stretch his legs. To Storm he says, "I can't believe we let that guy baby-sit. God help us if anyone finds out."

"Did he tell you?" Rogue says. "About his ex-wife?"

They both look down at her, incredulous. "What about his ex-wife?" Storm says.

"She's alive. She survived the hurricane after all."

They look at each other and then back at Rogue. They had no idea Remy was looking for his ex-wife. He's never said anything about her.

"Today he was doing a search and he found her name on the list of people who were evacuated to Atlanta," Rogue explains. "She's now living in South Carolina."

Storm wonders how much Rogue knows about Remy, how much they know about each other. What have they been talking about during those long afternoons at the mansion? How much has he told her?

"He says he's thinking about moving back to New Orleans," she continues.

That's news too.

And so is this: the doctor has come. Storm sees him first. He's young, the age Jean would be now, sandy-colored hair and tie under a white coat. He raps once on the open door and says Rogue's legal name. He's holding a clipboard.

The results have come back early.

Rogue and Logan stop smiling and look. Storm stands.

All moments are always this: the doctor coming in, asking them to sit down. All stories end here: the click of shoes on a tiled floor, the nod of the head, the doctor's voice. Storm looks at Rogue who looks at Logan who looks at the doctor. Rogue watches Logan to see how he reacts because Logan already knows what it is to know.

###

Storm returns to the mansion alone two days later, mid-afternoon. She takes a cab back so that Remy won't have to leave the children to pick her up. It's an expensive fare, but she doesn't blink when she pays it. She tips well. Remy comes outside to help her with her things. He kisses her on the cheek and carries her bag inside, but not before dusting the snow off the wheels.

The first thing she notices once she gets inside is that the mansion is very warm. Stuffy. Then she looks at him. He's wearing a tee-shirt and his hair is braided in elaborate cornrows. A ribbon threads a braid near his right temple. "Oh," he says, smiling and reaching to touch his hair. "Cynthia did it."

"It's a good look for you."

He laughs. "Yeah. If I were twenty-five years younger." He shrugs.

"Remy, why is it eighty degrees in here?"

He shrugs again. "Must have gotten warmer outside, I guess."

He takes her bag to put it upstairs in her bedroom and she makes the rounds. She also adjusts the thermostat. The place is sloppy but okay. It's in one piece. She finds her history class sprawled out in their classroom, the girls looking through glossy magazines and talking, the boys playing cards. Hip hop plays from the radio. When she appears in the doorway, one girl looks up and takes her feet off a desk. The others turn. Some put their magazines away. Jones blinks the radio off. They all seem to gulp. 

"Are you term papers finished?" she asks.

Jones says, "We put them on your desk, Ms. Munroe."

She nods and leaves them. As she walks down the hall, she hears one of them say, "Phew, that was close." And another says, "That's all?" And then there are whispers.

In the rec room, two telepaths play chess. They're so engrossed that they don't even see her walk past.

She goes into her study and sets her things down. Turns on the computer. Sits down and rubs her temples. There are expense reports to file, the new student to take care of, and phone calls to make. She has to make a doctor's appointment, and she knows she'll have to look very hard to find a doctor who is like them. She's not trusting this to anyone—not this. She's very nervous about the climate out there; everything seems calm these days, but so many issues remain. She is registered. She needs a doctor who is like her and who keeps a low profile. She knows she could call Hank for a name, but she'd have to disclose this to him. She's not ready. She hasn't even told Logan.

She also needs to call Emma Frost. She picks up the receiver when there's a knock at the door. Remy walks in.

She hangs up the phone.

He closes the door behind him quietly. "They're comin' home on Saturday?" he says.

She's already explained everything: the experimental drug trial, Rogue's prognosis, the possible side effects. ("Haven't there already been enough side effects?" Logan asked. He was not in favor of experimental drugs—not when an experimental drug had possibly set this whole thing in motion. He has no love left for the pharmaceutical companies. But he knows they have no other choice.)

"If she's well enough to travel," Storm says. "But they felt it was necessary to start this right away."

He creases his brow. Then he comes and sits across from her and sets his hands on the desk. He's wearing short sleeves. He's still muscular but he's wiry. He folds his hands. She can see the insides of his arms—the cigarette burn scars she hasn't glimpsed in years. "And she can get the rest of the treatments in Connecticut?"

"Yes, but she has to go back to Cleveland once a month."

He looks down at the desk. "And what about you?"

She stares at his hands. "I'm fine," she says quietly. She brings her gaze to meet his. She doesn't ask about whether or not he's going to New Orleans. She knows that he won't warn her when he's going to leave. He's worse than Logan when it comes to leaving. Much worse. She thinks back to all those years ago when he walked off the job, no goodbyes. They'd seen it coming, though.

"Thanks for covering for me while I was away," she says. "Everything looks . . . pretty good."

"No harm, no foul." He winks.

"Yeah." She picks up the receiver. "I have to make a phone call." She looks away, hoping that he'll get the message and leave.

Instead he reaches across the desk and takes the receiver out of her hand and hangs it up. "I know you came in here to call that woman. Don't."

"Remy. I don't have much of a choice. Especially not since we lost our math teacher. Emma is on the board of directors at another school. She knows people. This?" She picks up the phone again. "Is just a favor. I would do the same for her. If I don't do this, then I have to start sending the kids to the local schools again. And I don't want them mixed up with that. Not now."

" _Chere_."

"I don't have a lot of energy right now. You wouldn't understand." She rubs her forehead and lets her eyes close. "I need all the help I can get."

"Forget Frost. I know people," he says.

She keeps her eyes closed. Then opens them.

He takes a very deep breath. "I been thinkin'. At Tulane—a friend of mine used to teach there, you know? Tulane is outta order right now. A lot of professors out of work."

"Remy," she says. "We need teachers who can work with mutant children. Who are _willing_ to work with mutant children. Live with them. Supervise them at all hours. No college professor—"

He holds up his hand. "You'd be surprised." He seems to carefully weigh his thoughts. He bites his lip. "They're not all bad, Storm. Please. I know that's what this is about." He continues to hold up his hand. "You have to stop thinkin' in this us versus them mentality. Some of the best people I've ever known, Storm. Some of the best people I've ever known have been ordinary human beings. And most of the worst have been mutants."

She pushes the chair back from the desk. "I don't need a lecture on tolerance and understanding. I'm thinking in purely practical terms here."

"You're not listening to me." He closes his hand. "You know, all those years ago when I went missing? When I first started running with you guys? I had this friend, right? He wouldn't stop looking for me." He brings his fist to his forehead and closes his eyes. "Didn't stop. Anyway," he says, opening his eyes and dropping his hand, "even after he found me—and in spite of the fact that he found me—he still ran this organization. You've heard of it. Friends of the Disappeared. Dedicated to helping recover mutants who went missing. A real big network for nice ordinary folks who just want to help us. Who just want to find their mutant friends." He looks away, laughs to himself. "Chapters everywhere, usually on college campuses. Biggest one was at Tulane. 'Cause that's where he went back to, eventually." He looks up at the ceiling. "That was too bad," he whispers. He clears his throat. "There's a lot of those people around—professionals, teachers, professors, you name it. And if they're from New Orleans, they're probably out of work."

She stares at him.

"What I'm tryin' to say," he says, "is that you have to let go of hating them."

Now she is fuming. She does not, she thinks, hate ordinary people. At least not without a reason. And she's had plenty of solid reasons. But mostly, she's just done with people—even the good ones. She's done with their questions and their news conferences and their liberal need to "help" mutants with their self-congratulating tolerance and affirmative action policies. "That's a nice sentiment, Remy. Very nice. Next time they invent a cell-damaging cure and try to sell it to us, I'll keep that in mind."

"Okay," he says, his voice almost a whisper, and rises from the chair. "Okay." He's done with her. He pushes the chair in and puts his hands in his pockets. He turns and walks to the door. "Glad you're feeling fine," he says. Not always the gentleman, but usually. He closes the door quietly so she can get back to work.


	24. Chapter 24

Early March. Early morning. Remy arrived back at the mansion before five. The place was dark; only one window's light blinked on. Jean's. She knew he was home. She always knew he was home.

The professor had finally lengthened Remy's leash that winter. He let Remy roam again. Reconnaissance. This last time he'd been gone longer than he'd ever been gone before—four weeks. Four weeks spent living on the subway or crashing in flophouses. Four weeks spent listening to illegal wiretaps, or leaning on contacts, or finding new and creative ways to get people to talk. Four weeks spent trying to rehabilitate his reputation as a badass. Four weeks spent checking in with Scott and the professor over a payphone.

Four weeks without getting laid. (Honest.)

The conference was soon.

He found Jean in the kitchen. She was wearing her running clothes and reading the newspaper. She loved to go for early morning runs—five miles at five in the morning. If he got in late he sometimes went with her. When she saw him walk in, she looked up and smiled. (He loved it when she smiled. It made him feel so welcome, so missed.) "Heard you got a lot of good info," she said.

He leaned against the doorframe. "Hope it checks out. Hope we can kick this thing in the ass before it starts."

She looked him over. "How are you? You look like you've lost weight. You didn't need to lose anymore weight."

He smiled. "Were you waiting for me, _chere_?" he said. "Did you want me to run with you?"

She closed the newspaper and straightened. "Yeah," she said, her smile dropping off her face a little. "There's something I need to talk to you about."

If her tone was meant to be ominous, he didn't pick up on it. He went downstairs and shed his clothes—leather jacket, jeans that hadn't been washed in days, socks, shoes. Put on his sweats and sneakers. Tied back his hair. It was cold outside, so he put on some gloves. Jean never seemed to mind the cold—and Storm of course didn't mind any change in temperature at all. But Storm was not a morning person, so she never went out for these jogs.

He met Jean outside and they headed down the walkway and to the path beyond the road. They'd do a circle around campus before jogging over to the center of town.

The morning air was so cold it caught in Remy's throat. "I think we've confirmed Magneto's target," he said as they headed out past the field. "The big question is what to do about it."

"Right," she said. "We warn the target, we look suspicious. We don't warn him, everything goes to hell."

"This is just the beginning," he said, his breath starting to come easier. "Magneto's people are sloppy. They've left a paper trail all around town." He glanced at her. She was running with ease, her arms pumping at her sides, her head pointed forward, her hair pulled back behind earmuffs. He couldn't help but smile. "This is where I start to earn my keep."

"You already earn your keep, Remy."

"But this time for real."

"I know you're trying to prove yourself to the professor—"

"I bet Storm missed me." About this he felt more confident. They'd been apart for weeks. He wondered what girlfriend had planned for his big homecoming, what kind of weirdness that geek had dreamed up.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." She glanced at him but kept running at the same pace. "Thing is?"

He caught her eyes.

Now she slowed down to a loose jog. "Storm's old boyfriend came back to town."

He felt himself slow down. And stop. "What?"

Jean stopped. "She had this boyfriend for a while when she was in college. Forge. I'm sure she told you about him. They broke up a little while ago. Well, when you were out on your mission—"

"What?" Remy stood in the middle of the path. He felt the world slide away from him—the pavement beneath him felt craterous. "What!"

She stopped trying to talk and took a deep breath. "When you were away he came back." She spoke very slowly, as if she were telling him he had six months to live and she wanted to make sure he got the message the first time around. "What started off as a simple dinner out turned kind of serious." She reached over and touched his arm as it dangled by his side. "I'm sorry, Remy, but she's gone back to him."

He jerked away. Turned his back toward her. Then turned around and shouted something—something obscene, something in French-he could never remember what. When he went over the scene in his mind, he could never quite remember what he had yelled.

Remy LeBeau did not get dumped. Ever. Other people got dumped. Other people who weren't him—the same "other people" who lost a week's pay during a weekend in Vegas, or who got sunburns, or who got stuck in traffic jams and ate bad yellow fin. But Remy? Never. He was the guy other people couldn't get over. Girls used to come to the nightclub looking for him. They always tried to lure him back with promises of no-strings-attached sex—or they cried. Wept at the sight of him. Even his ex-wife. _Especially_ his ex-wife. She'd had an itch only he knew how to scratch, apparently. The bitch used to show up at the club once or twice a year—usually around his birthday and on their anniversary—and beg him to come back to the family fold. She'd swear she'd get him a big piece of her family franchise, little bourgeois bungalow in the Garden District, the whole shebang. She'd say that no one even thought about the "incident" anymore, the one with her brother. She'd cry and cajole. "An' we all know it weren't your fault, Remy!" she'd say. Terrible Cajun accent. Embarrassing. But Remy would just shrug it off—what else could he do? He'd go on dealing cards, just pretend she wasn't standing next to him. (She knew well enough not to touch him.) And Dan would be off on the sidelines, laughing. Laughing his ass off, much to Remy's chagrin. Enjoying it, loving Remy's obvious discomfort. Gloating because he had the prize, and to the victor go the spoils—and the laughter. Then he'd get the band to strike up "Witchy Woman."

Storm.

He covered his face with his hand. "Goddamnit!"

Jean stood there in the middle of the path, eyes fixed on him, hands on her hips. She hadn't expected him to take it this hard. Why? Well, she knew all about him. His childhood as a street hustler. His string of sexual conquests. His sexual ambiguity, his appetites. The swinging. The seduction, the flattery. You can't blame her for misreading him. With all the facts in front of you, you wouldn't think he was the type of guy who'd crumple up over a six-month relationship with a twenty-three-year-old school teacher—but that's exactly what he did. He folded up like a cheap lawn chair.

"What the fuck!" he shouted. "What the fuck!"

"Remy—"

More true confessions. During the entire time Remy dated Storm, he assumed she didn't mean that much to him. In fact, he assumed that he meant much more to her than she did to him. He liked girlfriend—thought she was sexy and at times funny—but _come on_. And here it was, and here he was, and she had _left him_. For some guy named _Forge_. While he was on a _mission_. Busting his _ass._ And he hadn't even screwed around! (Since we're being completely honest here? No, he hadn't cheated on her. But let's face it: he hadn't had the chance. He'd spent most of the winter recovering from a shillelagh wound and chained to a desk in the mansion. And when he wasn't doing that? He was slumming around Mutant Town smelling like horse dung. Would he have cheated on Storm if the circumstances had been different? He just couldn't tell.)

Remy LeBeau did not get dumped.

He decided to articulate this sentiment. "Remy LeBeau does not get dumped."

Jean blinked. Looked taken aback. She knew him better than anyone else, but she was wholly unprepared for this emotional shit show. "Okay, Remy. Is this about your ego or is this about her?"

He screamed. Seriously. He just stood in the middle of the path and let it out.

Jean held up her hand and he drew away from her. A fence ran alongside the path, a wooden fence. He could feel his energy gathering behind his eyes and in his hands. He went over and touched the top beam. In seconds it exploded.

When he looked back at Jean she was turned away, her hands guarding her face and head. "Jesus!" She turned around walked toward him. "You need to calm down. You're going to wake up everyone in Salem Center. Including Charles. You don't want that. You know you don't want that."

"Jean, Jean." He held his hands up and looked toward the sky.

"Oh my God, Remy. Are you—crying?"

"How could this happen? How could she do this to me? It must be a mistake. Tell me it's a mistake." Yeah, he _was_ crying. Bawling like a bitch. All his big southern emotions on the loose. He looked at her. Waited for her to answer.

She approached—gingerly. "First, you need to breathe."

He realized his chest was heaving. He willed himself to breathe normally. Time passed—he didn't know how much. He put his hands on his knees and steadied himself. Then straightened and looked back at Jean. "Tell me why she left me," he said. "I know you know."

She looked stricken—she was feeling his emotions. She held her hands out. "I don't know. All I know is that Forge came to town and she went back to him. I'm sorry."

She was hiding something, but he wasn't in the mood to pry. "Why couldn't she tell me herself?" He turned back toward the mansion and sniffled. His nose was running. "I'm goin' in there. Me and the sister are gonna have a little tête-à-tête. I'll tell you how it goes."

"You can't," Jean said. "She's not home. She's been staying with him. It's spring break, you know."

His head snapped back around. He felt his eyes start to glow. "Staying with him! You mean she _shacked up_? That bitch!"

Jean stepped back, startled. She had obviously never before seen a Cajun scorned. She didn't know how ugly jilted southern boys could get.

"Where? Where is she?"

She held her hand up again. "Pull it together, Remy. Right now. You could hurt somebody if you're not careful." She took a breath. "We're mutants. X-Men. We can't let our emotions run wild like this."

"Fuck that." He turned and started walking briskly back in the direction of the mansion.

Jean jogged alongside of him. Now _she_ was struggling to keep up.

Remy could feel hot breath and moisture coming out of his nostrils. He wasn't cold anymore. He wasn't anything.

She was calling his name.

"If you don't tell me," he said over his shoulder, "I'll turn over every goddamn hidey hole in the state looking for them."

She pushed him. One second he was walking along and the next he was on the ground. Looking up at her. Tasting dirt. Fingers threading dead grass. She hadn't used her telekinesis against him since the day they met.

"Listen to me," she said, standing over him, big as life. "You didn't just say that. You don't get to talk to me the way you talk to some pawnshop owner down in the city. I'm on your side, here. Against my better judgment, too. And when I tell you to pull it together, you better fucking do it."

He watched as she lowered herself to the ground so that she was kneeling next to him. He pushed himself up with his hands and into a sitting position.

She looked away. "Ro is complex. Like you. You're both very complicated people." Then she looked straight at him. "She's not stupid, you know. She knew your heart wasn't with her."

He shook his head. Felt fresh tears prick the corners of his eyes. "Bullshit," he whispered. "I love her."

Did he? Did he really love her? He decided right then and there: yes. He hadn't known. Hadn't felt it until now. Maybe that was because he compared everything he had with her to what he had with Dan—but that was foolish. Love didn't transfer like a bank balance. It was always different with each new person. Oh, he was finding this out way too late. He'd been so careless with her. With everybody.

"Maybe you do love her," Jean said. "But let's face it: you took her for granted. And she knew. She felt it every day."

"I can't believe she didn't tell me."

"Which was wrong." Jean reached over and touched his knee. "I tried telling her that."

He shook his head and started to cry again. He didn't even bother doing the Yankee thing, the whole wiping away the tears with the back of your hand. He just let himself go, snot and tears everywhere. His shoulders shook.

"Oh, Remy." She started to reach for him.

Remy dodged Jean's hug. "Where is she?"

She studied him. Saw his tears. (Assumed he'd been broken.) Then, made a critical error in judgment. "He lives on the Upper East Side." She even told him the intersection.

Remy was already on his feet, racing back to the mansion. She couldn't knock him down this time—he was too fast.

###

He showered, shaved, put on better clothes. Jean was standing outside of his room—he could feel her. When he came out—dry-eyed and freshened and smelling of aftershave and ready to go—she was there. "Remy, please don't go after her. You'll just make things worse."

"I just want to talk to her," he said, spinning on his heels and heading upstairs. "That's all." He needed some coffee.

Jean trailed after him. "If she wants to see you, she'll come back. It's no use forcing this. We need you here."

Upstairs the mansion was quiet. Usually it would have been stirring and coming to life at this point, but spring break left the place calm and empty. Hank had taken most of the students on an "educational" field trip to Philadelphia—some spring break that was!—but a few remained. The academic probation types. (Remy had a soft spot for those kids.) He winked at a bleary-eyed student and headed to the kitchen.

Scott was there. Glasses fixed to his face. Tie. Shoes shined. Standing over the counter. Eating a banana and reading the same paper Jean had been looking at. About to take a big bite out of life. No spring break for that guy. His face lit up when he saw Remy. "You're back."

Remy nodded and stepped around him to get to the coffee. "Leavin' again."

"What?"

Jean stood in the doorway. "He found out about Storm and Forge. He's heading down to the city to see if he can talk to her."

Scott paused, the banana in his hand. "How did he find out?" He looked at Remy. "How did you find out, Remy?"

Remy reached into the cupboard for a mug.

"I told him," Jean admitted.

Scott shook his head very slightly and looked down at the paper. "I don't think you should go down there, Remy. She won't be happy if you do that. Give it a little rest. She'll be home tomorrow."

He set the mug down on the counter a little harder than he had intended. "Need to talk some sense into that girl." He pointed at Jean. "Which she should have done."

Scott rocked back on his heels. He put his hands in his pockets.

Remy poured the coffee. Then he reached for the sugar. Jean moved into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, brought out the milk, and set it in front of him. Then she looked at Scott. And Scott looked back at her. They both glanced at Remy. Oh, the joys of telepathic gossip.

"Jesus H. Christ on a crapstick," Remy said. "Will you two quit doin' that? I'm standing right here."

Scott focused on Remy. "The professor and I need to talk to you. The conference is weeks away. We don't have a lot of time. We need to know what you found out about Magneto's target."

Remy picked up his coffee and looked at Scott and pointed at Jean. "Let's say you're out bustin' your ass tryin' to save mankind and she gets an itch for some Upper East Side fruitcake. Would you just roll over and go back to work?"

Scott tilted his chin downwards.

"Yeah, exactly." Remy downed his coffee.

"I would trust her to make decisions about her own life," Scott said. "And I would also acknowledge that there are things happening in the world that need more attention than a personal relationship."

Maybe Scott was offended that Remy was comparing his relationship with Jean to Remy's little sex romp with Storm. And this offended Remy. He put his mug in the sink and then turned around. "Bull fucking shit. When it happens to you—" he shot Jean a look—"and hopefully it never will. But when it does, good luck with that peace, love and saving the world crap." He closed his eyes and sighed. Then opened them. "You know, you people up here. You're fuckin' unbelievable. A girl walks out on you and you're just supposed to think that's fine, that's dandy, that's the way it goes? What, you gonna have a conference call about it? Where I'm from, it's like this. Your woman walks out on you, you go to her. Get her to look you in the face and tell you she don't love you anymore." He glanced at Jean. "You look the other guy in the face too. But it doesn't end without a real come-to-Jesus."

Scott broke into a smile. "Simmer down, Cletus. That might work in Dixie, but up here we have these things called laws."

"That's what I've been telling him for the past hour," Jean said.

Remy straightened his shirt. "You never complain about my good ole boy tactics when I get you what you need. Now if you'll excuse me." He put on his hat.

###

On his way down to the city, Remy made all kinds of bets with himself. He bet that Forge had a dog. Not a big dog but something small and expensive and rare, something that didn't shed. He knew the guy had to be rich, but Remy bet that he inherited it. He could see Forge in his mind: some pretty little blond kid right out of college who had just started a job on Wall Street. Probably because he had some connection, some family. Some _good_ family, or some good enough family, anyway. The kind of family that played it fast and loose but always fell on the right side of the law.

He bet that Forge collected rare art. Maybe rare books. He probably liked the type of music Scott listened to, but when he was feeling dramatic he listened to Guns N' Roses. He never drank white zinfandel. He kept his summer and winter shirts in separate ends of his walk-in closet. He donated money, but only to causes like his alma mater (probably a prep school) and political campaign funds.

Remy was going to enjoy the look on this kid's face. No, he wasn't going to do anything—he wasn't planning on it, anyway—but whatever happened, happened. He parked the car illegally and walked a nice block. Almost jaunty about it. Stepped up to the apartment complex and found the name "Forge" next to the buzzer. Gave it a good hard push. But before anyone even answered, the door swung open. Storm stood there in the doorway, holding the door open with her palm. She didn't bother to come outside. "That ringer's broken," she said.

Jean must have called her to apprise her of the situation.

"Remy," she said.

Remy turned to square off with her, but he didn't rush her. He wanted to grab her drag her down the street and force her into his car and back up to Westchester—but he didn't. (That would have been a little _too_ southern for his tastes.) Instead he just said: "Baby. What are you doin'?"

She grimaced. "I was going to tell you when you got back. I didn't think you'd come back while spring break was still on."

"Tell me?" he said. "What have you got to tell me? What is all this about, Storm?"

She stepped outside and let the door swing shut behind her. That's when he got a look at her. She looked . . . really good. Hair was in place. Clothes—elegant. But it wasn't just that—she looked rested. She looked like she'd been having the greatest time of her life. She never looked like that for him.

She laid a hand on his arm. "Why don't you head back to the mansion? I'm coming back this afternoon and we can talk."

He pulled away from her and pointed at the ground. "Whatever you got to say, say it. Right here."

She folded her arms in front of her. "I'm sorry, Remy. I should have told you sooner but I couldn't find you. You're never around—"

He jerked forward. "I'm never around because I'm out working. I'm out doing this X-Men shit. You think this is a party? You think I'm enjoying myself? You think I just don't come home because I'm havin' a great old time getting pissed on and kicked in the subway?"

She tightened her mouth and narrowed her eyes. "I honestly don't know what you're doing most of the time. I can't have sympathy for you because you never tell me anything. You don't let me in."

Everything slid into place. She was accusing him, in a roundabout way, of being unfaithful—and he _hadn't_ been unfaithful. That was the worst—suffering all the consequences of cheating when you hadn't even partaken in its pleasures. " _Mon Dieu_ , I was out drinking rain water and washing myself in bus station bathrooms. Watching people blow dope all day just so I can get some kind of leverage. So I don't catch another shillelagh." He let out a big, messy, indistinguishable syllable. Started to wring his hands in front of her. "I busted my ass, and you know why? Us! For us, baby! So that we can have a mighty nice life when all this is done!"

Did he believe this? He chose to.

She shook her head slightly. Her eyes darkened.

"I'm in agony over you, baby," he said. He was starting to sob again. "How could you do this to me?"

She closed her eyes. "Remy." She looked at him. "This isn't open for discussion right now. Not here. We'll talk later."

He could sense she was getting ready to go back inside and leave him there. He couldn't stand that thought—couldn't stand the idea that she'd leave him on the stoop. "Does he do it better than I do? Is that what this is about? Huh?"

"Remy." She moved towards the door. "I'm not talking about this."

He was desperate now. He had long lost himself—just couldn't believe this was happening. He spoke without thinking. "You said no one ever fucked you like I did, darlin'. Your words, not mine. Does he do the things I do? Does he go down on you? Make you come twice?"

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. Looked back at him—stole a tiny glance. Had a look of smug satisfaction on her face. "Since you asked? More than twice. And he talks to me afterwards, too. Actually gives a shit about what I have to say." She turned her head around to meet his gaze measure for measure. Then she went inside and let the door click shut behind her.

Remy paced for about four seconds. Then he dashed over, gathered his energy, and busted the lock. He saw Storm as she was about to duck through a door and chased after her.

He pushed the door open.

"Remy!" she said, jerking away from him.

He found himself in a small but well-kept apartment. There were bookshelves. (Of course there were bookshelves—bookshelves filled with all kinds of books.) A dining room set. Matching blue sofa and loveseat. Everything was tasteful and boring, like it had been done by a professional. (He'd never had his own place, but right then and there he vowed to get one someday—just so he could throw leopard skin carpets down on the floor and put a big fucking sarcophagus or some other grotesquery in the parlor.)

"Remy," she whispered. "You need to get the fuck out of here. Now." She tried pushing him back towards the door but he squirmed away from him. "Before he comes back into the room."

A photograph on the wall caught Remy's attention. Four guys in army fatigues smiling together outside of some camp—looked tropical, like Vietnam. On the opposite wall hung a patent certificate from the U.S. government, Forge's name dead center. Dude was an inventor. Big deal.

Music was playing from the other room—the bedroom, he guessed. "Total Eclipse of the Heart." The guy who had cuckolded him listened to Bonnie Tyler.

"Who the hell is this guy?" Remy asked.

"Remy," Storm said again.

Someone was moving around. There was a shadow on the wall and footsteps, and then a dude emerged from the other room.

"Oh," he said to Storm, a small smile flickering on his lips. "I didn't know you had a guest over, honey."

So this was Forge. He was not young, not particularly attractive, and not even wearing a shirt. He had on jeans and a pair of socks. Native American looking. He was older than Remy—late thirties at least—receding hairline and an adequate but unimpressive physique. What was it with this girl and old-ass dudes? Had Forge been a beautiful young twenty-something Remy could have shrugged off her rejection, pinned it on youth and stupidity and her needing to be with someone with whom she had "more in common." But this guy was frayed around the edges. Remy recognized him immediately as one of the guys in the photograph. He'd been in Vietnam—had that hardened lost-on-the-Mekong-Delta look about him, like he'd misplaced part of his soul in a rice paddy. Remy had been friends with several Vietnam vets, and he knew them well enough to know that they didn't go around hanging pictures of their glory days in the living room. This guy was messed.

Storm swallowed. "Forge, this is Remy LeBeau. I told you about him, remember?"

Forge held out his hand. He looked thoughtful, like he was trying to jog his memory. Trying to piece together what Storm had told him. It was, of course, an act. This guy knew exactly who Remy was the second he saw him. "Oh!" he said, a look of premeditated recognition crossing his face. He glanced at Storm. "Is this your Cajun? The boy from the bayou?"

Remy felt every awful emotion he'd ever experienced drop to his feet. He didn't bother to return Forge's handshake. If he had, he might have killed the man.

He felt Storm flinch. Even she hadn't expected Forge to be so condescending.

Forge dropped his hand but kept his smile. "Ororo has told me all about you. How do you find working with Charles Xavier? Now he's a hell of a good guy. I always enjoy helping him when I'm in town. Lately the Pentagon needs my assistance, though."

Wait—this guy knew the professor? Worked with the X-Men? He was a mutant? Yes indeed—Remy took note the small tattoo on his chest right below his left shoulder. Some mutants did that to themselves—called it their mark. He knew the Morlocks were fond of it as well as other populations: soldiers, mercenaries, prisoners, gang members. This guy might have cleaned up well, but Remy saw him for what he was: a brute.

But these thoughts did little to distract Remy from the fact that Storm had been with another mutant. That he _hadn't_ been her first mutant boyfriend. He felt stupid. And then wondered why she'd taken up with him in the first place. Was it all just a sex thing? Was he just a convenient bang? _Mon Dieu_ —he felt awkward and used and cheap. The way he'd probably made countless other people feel. Christ, to find out this way. To finally know.

He looked at her. He was torn between begging her to come back to him and wanting to just rip into her. "You gotta be shitting me."

"Okay Remy," she said, trying to nudge him toward the door. "Thanks for dropping by. I'll see you back at the house."

But he wouldn't budge. He stared at Forge. Took out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. Got out his lighter.

"Uh, hey pal," Forge said. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't smoke that in here—"

"And I'd thank you kindly not to fuck my girlfriend anymore," Remy said, inhaling and blowing the smoke out in Forge's face. "What's wrong, Tonto? Don't wanna fight?"

"Remy!"

Forge put his hand up. "Hey pal, I don't want to hurt you—"

Remy felt his eyes glow. He took a drag on his cigarette and then tossed it onto the carpet in front of Forge's feet. Then backed away.

The explosion was a small one, but it knocked Forge back onto the sofa. Storm started screaming at Remy. Outside the weather started to get weird. It got dark. The wind rattled the windows. Remy bolted for the door.

On the street, he took note of a car parked out front with a U.S. Army bumper sticker.

Half an hour later found him in a not-so-great neighborhood. District X. He stepped out of his car and found the nearest juvenile delinquent—a dealer he sometimes talked to. The kid saw Remy coming and tried to squirm away, but Remy catapulted himself over a row of cars and grabbed the kid by the arm. "Not here to haul your ass in, kid," he said. He jerked the boy around so that they were standing in an alley. Then took out a wad of bills. "How would you like to make this in one morning?"

###

For the rest of the day he felt damn pleased with himself. He went back to Westchester County and made his meeting with Scott and Jean and the professor. Laid it all out for them. Told them that he was nearly certain that Magneto's target was a young upstart, a congressman named Kelly who was making some noise about running for the Senate.

Jean stared at him, quiet and careful. Trying to get a read on him. Wondering how a guy could be in pieces in the morning and calm as fuck in the afternoon.

"That's what all of our intelligence sources are saying," Scott said. "This just confirms it. But why Kelly? He has been absolutely quiet on the issue of mutant affairs."

"He doesn't want to offend his constituents," Jean said. Jean followed politics closely-partly because it was her duty, and partly because she enjoyed it. The psychology of it. "His district is heavily mutant. But once he gets elected to the Senate? He'll represent a much wider sector of the population."

"And Senate terms are much longer," the professor said. "He won't always be running for reelection. He can do a lot of damage in six years."

Jean said, "He's also got some major campaign contributors. Boeing. Lockheed Martin. He's firmly in their corner."

Scott adjusted his glasses. "The same companies manufacturing sentinels."

"It's about money," Jean said. "It always is."

The professor turned to Remy, who was leaning against the desk. "What do you know about the specifics of the planned assassination?"

"Kelly has a subcommittee meeting for the Tuesday afternoon during the week of the conference," Remy said. "One of my sources says that the Brotherhood got a copy of his schedule." He shook his head and looked at the ceiling. "You know, it just doesn't make any sense."

The professor stared at him. "What is it, Remy? What's your hunch?"

Remy stood from the desk and came over to sit next to the professor. He looked the man in the face. "Magneto's people are being very sloppy. Like getting a copy of this schedule. Ordering up plane tickets and booking hotel rooms for this conference. They've left a paper trail the length of the National Road. They're either incredibly stupid—or they want to get caught." He bent forward and touched his palms together. "You know Lehnsherr better than we do. What do you think?"

The professor sat back in his wheelchair and sighed. "It's not out of the question. Erik might indeed be trying to draw us out."

"But for what?" Jean said.

"That's what we need to find out," the professor said. "We don't have a lot of time." He concluded the meeting and doled out their duties.

Remy found himself wondering about the question that had bugged him during most of his time in the city: Why were they expending all this energy and effort to protect the same people who were orchestrating their genocide? Remy had seen pictures of the factories, diagrams of the killing machines programmed to track and eviscerate a mutant in mere seconds. He remembered Cassidy's admonition: that they should let Magneto take out the trash. Either Xavier knew something they didn't—and this was possible—or Remy was indeed a member of the most self-righteous and self-abnegating group of renegade freedom fighters on the face of the planet.

Remy didn't get to indulge his misgivings for long. He sat down in the kitchenette to have some yogurt and was reaching for a spoon when he heard it. Thunder. Bizarre. A weird sound to hear in March. Lightening lit up the mansion. Seconds later, rain pelted the windows. By this time he had put it together. He went to stash the yogurt and head downstairs, but he was too late.

Storm.

She blew open the front doors. (Knocked all of the paintings and bulletin boards off the wall too, but Remy didn't find that out until later.) He was struggling to get to the backdoor when she spotted him and sent a gust of wind in his direction. She pinned him to the wall. Pelted him with books and papers and other loose items. "You!" she said.

They were in the hallway. She stalked over to him, lifted him up, and slammed him against the wall. (He knew she was rough, but he hadn't known she could be rough _like that_.)

" _Chere_!" he said. "Don't kill me!"

"I'm not going to kill you," she said, her arm under his throat. She was choking him. "I'm going to break your face." She pulled her fist up and punched him. Girl had a hell of an uppercut, as it turned out. His jaw smarted and buzzed with pain. He tasted blood and wondered if she'd knocked loose a tooth. His entire face throbbed.

"Ro!" Jean shouted. She and Scott had just emerged from the rec room. (Apparently they'd found it in themselves to drag themselves away from each other to watch Remy get pounded.)

Storm let go of him. He slid to the floor, gasping for air. She'd been choking him.

"This!" Storm said, pointing to him and staring at Scott and Jean. "This swamp rat!"

Three students hovered on the stairway—three academic probation types. Scott turned and told them to go to their rooms. They crept away. They must have known: this was serious shit.

Jean approached. She was going to try to diffuse the situation, but Storm wouldn't have it.

"Don't tell me to calm down," she said, jerking her arm away. "Guess what happened today? Forge got arrested. He's in jail right now. His arraignment is set for tomorrow morning."

Remy struggled to his feet. Storm turned around and punched him in the stomach. He doubled over and sat back down.

"Arrested?" Scott said. "For what?"

Storm looked down at Remy. "Why don't you tell them? Asshole."

Remy clutched his stomach and coughed. "I have no idea what you're talkin' about, _chere_."

Storm picked up a foot to kick him but Scott grabbed her by the arms and pulled her away. "Ro," he said. "Please." She looked up at him. "For me," he said.

She pushed Scott away but relaxed. "We were driving over the George Washington Bridge when we got pulled over by the cops. They found a bag of marijuana in his car and tomorrow they're charging him with possession with intent to distribute." She turned to point to Remy. "A bag of marijuana which he planted."

Remy leaned back against the wall and threw up his hands. "Well, that's a hell of a feat for me, seeing as I was here all afternoon. _Non_?"

Scott stood between Storm and Remy. "He _was_ here all afternoon," he said. "I can attest to that."

"Wow, look at me," Remy said, climbing to his feet again. "I guess Remy LeBeau is just everywhere at once and everything to everybody. Guess I'm the shit."

Storm raised a fist. "Asshole," she mouthed.

Remy reached for a cigarette. He widened his eyes at her. Then blew her a kiss.

"Cut it out," Jean said, stepping forward and wrapping a hand around Remy's upper arm. "Both of you. You." She looked at Storm. "You need to go outside and get rid of this squall. And you." She tightened her hand. "Don't lie to me. Did you plant that pot?"

"Absolutely not," he said. He looked at her. (He wasn't lying.) "Dude's a Vietnam vet. Serious issues. I'm not surprised he tokes to take away the pain. He listens to Bonnie Tyler. I bet he's a serial killer. He's probably got a head in his freezer." He turned his head to look at Storm. "Seriously, hon. That guy's not above board. You could do better."

She put her hands on her hips and fixed her eyes on him. "I guess I just have a thing for losers. But at least Forge didn't have to get a GED. At least he has a real job."

"As a drug dealer, apparently." Remy put his cigarette between his lips and widened his eyes at her again.

"Enough," Scott said. "Ro—" Then he stopped. Turned around.

The professor. He was watching them. Remy had no idea how long he'd been there. They all peeled back. Unknotted themselves from the corner. Remy closed his eyes and hung his head. Took the unlit cigarette from his lips and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Folded his arms across his chest and waited.

"Remy," the professor said. His voice was neither kind nor unkind, neither angry nor sad. "Would you step into the den for a minute?"

###

Remy stood there. He wanted to stand for this, wanted to be on his feet when he got his walking papers. He watched as the professor wheeled himself to the other side of the coffee table and turned around to face him.

Remy stood with his hands in his pockets. Then den was small—much smaller than the study or the war room. He just wanted the word and then he'd go downstairs and pack up his shit. He wanted to get this over with.

"Take a seat," the professor said.

Remy exhaled and walked around to sit on the sofa. He pulled up his pants and slowly lowered himself onto the cushion.

The professor gestured to their surroundings, to the room. "I like this room, Remy. You know why?"

He crossed his legs and sniffed. Shook his head.

"In this room I can usually get people to say things they might not feel comfortable saying elsewhere. I use my study as a classroom. But I use this room to talk to people one-on-one. Students. Instructors. X-Men." He cleared his throat. "I've learned a lot about people in this room. About your friends, for instance." He nodded to the door. "They've told me things that no one else knows. That they've never told anyone." He paused. "They are your friends, aren't they?"

Remy stared at him. Then nodded.

"Good. It's good to have friends."

Remy leaned back and closed his eyes. He traced one eyebrow with his finger. "Sir," he whispered. He cleared his throat. "Professor. Please don't read my mind."

"I'm not, Remy. I don't. I don't read your mind. Besides the fact that it is unethical to read your mind without your permission, it is also extremely rude."

He opened his eyes. "Jean reads my mind."

He leaned forward. "That's because Jean hasn't yet learned to control her telepathy. She can't help but feel what you feel and sense the shape of your thoughts. It's very difficult for her, a very difficult thing to manage—to have to feel what others are going through. In time she will master her gifts."

Remy closed his eyes again.

"You've had a complicated two years," the professor said. "A rocky time. But I suspect you've always had things a bit rougher than most human beings."

These were simple statements—and very obvious—but Remy could not ignore the fact that his chest tightened. The professor knew. Even if he hadn't been reading Remy's mind, he knew things.

"Things just happen to you," the professor continued. "I know."

Remy continued to trace his eyebrows. He felt his breathing hasten. He didn't want to cry.

The professor's voice was quiet but urgent. "And people have manipulated you. Your family. Your friends. They've used you for your gifts. They've exploited you for your talents. This is not uncommon as far as mutants are concerned, but each individual must endure it differently." He paused. "Do you want to know what I wish for you?"

Remy kept his eyes closed. But when it was clear that the professor wouldn't proceed without some acknowledgment, he nodded.

"I want you to stop thinking of yourself as a bad person, yes. But more than that? I want you to stop thinking of yourself as expendable. You're not expendable, and not because of your service to us. You're an indispensable member of the team because of what you mean to your friends. They would not be the same without you. You must know this by now. You have to know this."

His leg was twitching. He willed it to stop. He opened his eyes. "The things I've done—"

"Are in the past. And the tragedy of your life is not that these things happened. The greatest tragedy would be if you let them to continue to define your life."

He looked at the professor. Rubbed his knee. Felt like confessing something. He opened his mouth. "I'm bad at relationships. I hurt people." There.

"Oh," Xavier said, smiling a little. "We all hurt people. It's a general rule, I think. And I don't know anyone who's really good at relationships. The trick is to move past the pain we've caused and into something else. Something better. You'll find that something better. With Storm, yes. Sooner than you think."

Remy nodded. He wanted to say something else, but he couldn't quite trace the source of his messy thoughts to their origin.

The professor must have sensed the fact that Remy was grasping. "We can talk more later. In the meantime, is there someone at NYPD you'd like to call?"

He nodded.

"There's a phone on the table over there," the professor said. He put his wheelchair in reverse and then turned around. "Take your time. But not too much time." He wheeled toward the door.

###

The next day, Remy was holed up in his room piecing together his notes and avoiding Storm. And nursing his bruised jaw. Around one in the afternoon, he heard a noise: an urgent rapping on his window.

Because he had a basement room, he had a very small window at the top of his wall that looked out to a dull patch of earth. (Very depressing.) He went over to the window to find Lucas Bishop above him, beating the shit out of the glass. "LeBeau!" he shouted. "I need to talk to you."

Remy waved to him and went upstairs. He opened the back door to find Bishop standing there, that big guy looking even bigger in his overcoat. As soon as Remy opened the door, Bishop grabbed his arm and slapped a handcuff on his wrist. "You're under arrest for breaking and entering and tampering with property of the U.S. government. Would you like me to read you your rights?"

Remy tried to pull away. He called for Scott. "Is this about Forge?" he asked Bishop. "Because I straightened that out."

"You know what this is about," Bishop said.

Scott rounded the corner and came to the end of the hallway. "Lucas," he said. Then he saw Remy handcuffed. "What the hell is going on?"

"Ask him," Bishop said.

Remy leaned back and shook his head. Looked at Scott. "Jesus Christ. This time I really have no fucking clue."

###

"I give him a top secret federal file," Bishop said, "and the next thing I know, he breaks into the Pentagon. When I saw him on the surveillance video, I just about lost my large intestine."

They were in the war room—Scott, the professor, Remy (still handcuffed), and Bishop.

The professor examined the glossy photographs, the stills that showed Remy making his way along a top-secret Pentagon corridor. The photographs were time stamped: two in the afternoon the day before.

"A registered mutant," Bishop continued. "A suspect in half a dozen open cases of fraud and racketeering. And here he is, breaking into the Pentagon to steal classified government files on weapons manufacturing."

Remy shrugged. "Did I get away with it?"

Bishop froze, his mouth set in a straight line.

"Uh, he's got an alibi," Scott said. "He was with us yesterday." He looked Remy over. "Except for a brief hiatus in the city. But he couldn't have been in Virginia. Unless he can bilocate, and if so it's a talent he hasn't shared with us."

The professor set the photographs down and nodded. "I can guarantee that he had nothing to do with this."

Remy held up his handcuffed hands. "If I was gonna break into the Pentagon, I wouldn't be all Patty Hearst about it anyway. Getting caught on camera is not my thing." He rattled his handcuffs. "Take these off."

"Is there an explanation for this?" Scott said.

Remy nodded. "I could have a twin. I was adopted, you know."

Bishop shook his head and exhaled. He walked over to where Remy sat and undid his handcuffs. "The explanation is something I feared. Something I've feared for a very long time." He put his handcuffs in his back pocket. "I've long suspected that the Brotherhood has a shapeshifter in their ranks. And this person?" He held up is hands. "Is framing you, LeBeau. I guess you're on somebody's shit list. Any insights into that?"

Remy sat back and rubbed his wrists. He said this dreamily, and almost to himself: "Forge. He works for the Pentagon."

Scott gripped the table. "Forge doesn't have connections to the Brotherhood. He's worked for us. Even updated our technology, pro bono."

"And Forge wouldn't do such a thing," the professor said. "It's just not like him."

But Remy and Bishop exchanged glances.

Scott showed Bishop out and the professor took Bishop's file back to the study. But Remy stayed in the war room, rubbing his wrists. Christ, he was being set up and he had no one to talk to about it. Jean was pissed at him because of the stunt he had pulled—and because he had lied to her. (The fact that it was a lie of technicality didn't win him any favor.) She and Storm were closing ranks, buddies again, united by Remy's bad behavior. Scott seemed fine about the whole thing—Remy got the impression that he secretly found Forge's arrest hilarious—but he was no stand-in for Jean. He was great if you wanted to talk about the Knicks or motorcycles, but he didn't like to dip beneath the surface of things. Didn't like to dwell. Or he saved his introspection for Jean. (Remy suspected that everyone saved their introspection for Jean.) In any case, he had fucked up again. His bed was empty—he'd be waking up alone from now on. He closed his eyes and waited for a minute before going upstairs to talk to Scott.


	25. Chapter 25

These days, doctors don't tell you anything.

They used to give you a nice round number: six months, nine months, a year. Now they try to be much more proactive. They try to keep you from feeling sorry for yourself. They speak in terms of the number of treatments you will undergo, the options. The plan A, the plan B. The new drugs no one's ever heard of. They make it sound as if you have a choice, as if recovery is as simple as wanting it. As easy as bringing your hand down on a table, like _this, I want this_.

It is all, Rogue thinks, very American. The idea that attitude determines outcome. Rogue would know. She's an American Studies major. Or, she was.

She spends her days in the mansion now. She's feeling strong enough to move around some days. Some days she puts on a jeans and a sweater and heads down to the rec room to watch TV with everyone else.

She avoids Warren. Or he avoids her. She's not sure which. He's the boy whose father invented the cure, and she's the girl who took it—willingly. There is a shared guilt. He's a weird guy anyway. He's pedigreed and urbane, has a chiseled face that belongs in some gated community in Greenwich, Connecticut. He could be at some Ivy League institution—and probably was—but now he has decided to pursue a teaching certificate at WestConn so he can go full-time at the mansion and be an X-Man. Well, whatever does it for him.

"Whatever does it for him," Remy says to Rogue one day when they're in the rec room and Warren is outside on the porch filling a birdfeeder with birdseed. When Warren's around, he keeps an eye on Remy. Wants to make sure Remy isn't corrupting anyone.

Nothing gets past Remy. He knows Warren is keeping tabs on him. Just as he seems to know more about the mansion's inner workings than he lets on. And he knows more about Logan and Storm than Rogue can ever hope to know.

People have secrets, and Remy seems to be keeping all of them.

One day she dragged herself out of bed to ask Logan if he'd be free to take her to Yale-New Haven on Wednesday for her treatment. She figured he was in the study. She went over and raised her hand to knock. Then, thought better of it. She could hear arguing. Logan and Storm. They're not exactly a peaceful couple. It sounded like Storm was saying, "It's out of the question," and Logan was saying, "I can't stand it when you dictate to me. And it's like you don't tell me anything, and then you expect me to just fall in line."

Remy sidled up to her. He came from some dusty alcove and put an arm around her shoulder. Steered her away and into the kitchen. "Just be glad," he said.

"Glad about what?"

"That they ain't fightin' about you, _petite_." He smiled at her and gave a low chuckle. "You should hear some of the things they say about me."

"Like how you took Jones and Artie to a strip club?"

He waited a moment before replying. "I did not take them to a strip club. I took them to a bar. There just happened to be a lap dancer there." He sat her down at a stool.

She peered at him. "But you did get them drunk."

He slid into the stool across from hers and returned her gaze. "How did you know? Happened last fall. You wasn't around then."

"Kitty told me."

Remy chuckled and looked down. Shook his head. "That child. No, if you must know? I was driving them home from the movie theater and I stopped into Macaulay's because I owed somebody. Except the payin' up took a little longer than I expected. So those two boys snuck into the bar and drank everybody's half-empty bottles and whiskey glasses on the tables. That," he says, setting his hands on the counter, "is what got them sick. They mixed beer and hard liquor. Rookie mistake. Logan should teach them a thing or two about drinkin', _non_?"

"They're fourteen," Rogue pointed out.

"I started drinkin' when I was nine."

"And Storm flipped a shit."

Remy shrugged as if to say "Ah, life." "Old girl gets high strung sometimes. Occupational hazard."

Rogue felt herself smiling. "I heard you two used to—"

Remy arched his eyebrows.

"Date each other," she finished.

He closed his mouth and nodded. "We had a real fun time together." He looked like he wanted to say something more, but instead he just looked down and laughed.

Rogue knew not to ask.

She knew not to ask Logan things either, but she did anyway. On the way back from Cleveland, she finally broke down and asked him about his relationship with Storm. (She waited until they got to Pennsylvania. But just barely.) He didn't _bristle_ exactly, but he tensed. "We've been seeing each other for—what's it been?—a year, year and a half. I guess."

He guessed?

"How's that going?" she said.

He adjusted the car's thermostat. "Good," he said. Then, as if he realized he was being irritatingly evasive, he gave her a quick glance. "Thought I told you. Thought you knew."

"No," she said. Too quickly. She should have stammered around and said, oh yeah, she remembered him mentioning something about that.

She was annoyed. She felt awful—her chest ached and she felt as though she'd been stretched on a rack—and Logan was distant. Weirdly protective of this relationship with Storm. When she'd dated Bobby, Logan had been all up in their business, and blunt as hell: "So how do you guys . . . ?" But this thing with Storm had Logan equivocating and dodging and changing the subject. Rogue wondered whom he was trying to protect: Storm or her? If he was trying to protect her? Then Rogue would be pissed. There was no need for that. She wasn't his daughter, jealous because he took up with a new wife.

Truth is? Logan and Storm are good for each other. In fact, it would have been weird if they hadn't hooked up. She remembered that Remy had said something about magic—that the people who had gone before them were having their way with all of them, Logan and Storm especially. Having a good old laugh from beyond the grave. "Somebody up there played matchmaker," he said. "I'll leave it to you to guess who."

She and Logan used to be much closer. Part of it, she knows, was her mutation. When she touched him she knew him. He became a part of her. She always knew what to say to him, how to draw him out, how he approached the world. But once she took the cure, he was gone. Everything became so ordinary. She's a just a college girl and he's just a man with a buried past who works at a boarding school. No magic anymore.

###

She avoids mirrors. She looks terrible. She's hard to look at. Her cheeks are hollowed out, her skin pale, her eyes dull. Under her sweaters, her ribs protrude. But people? People are kind. Remy says she's looking better. The kids seem to have gotten used to it. They talk to her like she's anybody. They no longer stare. The only ones who seem uncomfortable are Kitty and Bobby. When they come home and say hi to her, they look at her quickly. Or they look past her.

She also avoids mirrors because she is twenty. The face that stares back at her is a young one—too young. She wants to know what she will look like at thirty and forty. She wonders how her face will look at sixty-five. That's all she wants now: a face that will not always be twenty.

Speaking of Bobby: something big happened. Something that was surprising but underwhelmingly expected.

Three days after she arrived home from Cleveland, she was sitting in the front room with Remy. They weren't really talking or watching TV or anything—they were just sitting there together. Keeping each other company. This is what she likes best about Remy: he doesn't feel the need to talk when he has nothing to say. Then there was a sharp rap at the door. Someone was pounding the knocker.

Remy tensed. Looked at Rogue out of the corner of his eyes. "Who the hell might that be?" They hadn't even heard the gate buzz. He got up and went to the door.

Rogue remained on the couch. She just didn't have the strength to get up. In fact, she knew she should go climb back into bed, but she didn't even have the strength to do that. She heard a male voice from the hallway, the sound of someone stepping inside and stomping his feet on the doormat to get rid of the snow. Then the voice asked for Professor Logan.

Remy paused. "I'll go get him for you, sir. In the meantime, why don't you take a seat in the parlor here?" And then Remy appeared in the doorway. With Bobby's dad.

Rogue had been leaning back on the armrest. When Mr. Drake came into the room, she swung her legs around—very slowly—and sat up. She tried to smile, tried to greet him, but her face must have betrayed her shock. Bobby's family never dropped by.

Bobby was not as estranged from his family as she was from hers. The "incident" in Boston a few years ago had definitely made things tense—Bobby told her that he never felt comfortable going home after that—but his parents had not disowned him. What they wanted him to do was this: cut ties with the mutant community, stop hanging around Xavier's, and integrate himself into normal human society. In other words, no "mutant pride" bullshit. They helped pay for Wesleyan because they hoped that he might use an elite education to rub elbows with nice rich normal kids, or to land an internship with CNN. Or to meet a nice normal girl. But Bobby wasn't doing any of those things. His failure to meet their expectations must have been a sore spot, a constant source of disappointment. No wonder he rarely went home.

But now Mr. Drake was sitting on the opposite sofa. When he saw Rogue he recognized her, but the recognition was uncomfortable. He feigned surprise and interest, but in reality he was alarmed and taken aback. Rogue could feel his eyes sweeping over her. Yes, she was sick. No, she didn't feel like talking about it.

"How are you?" he asked. "How are things going?"

"Fine," she said, bright and fake. "How are you?"

And so on. Topics they covered: school, weather, family (Bobby's). The longest two minutes of her life.

She remembered Mr. Drake from the morning she'd spent in Bobby's house, the morning before Alkali Lake. He'd seemed to take the news of Bobby's mutation a little better than his mother had. His mother was overbearing, concerned about appearances. Mr. Drake had seemed like a regular guy. Bobby had told her that he worked for a bank. Made good money, too—good enough to afford a nice house in the suburbs of Boston.

Logan appeared in the doorway and greeted Mr. Drake (very politely—some of Storm's better social skills had obviously rubbed off on him) and asked him what the trouble was.

Remy hung back in the hallway.

Mr. Drake stood and walked over to shake Logan's hand. "Thank you for meeting with me," he said. But his discomfort was obvious. Probably he did not like shaking hands with a guy who had once drawn steel claws at police officers. "I came here looking for Bobby. Is he here?"

Logan looked at him. Then shook his head. "I thought he was at college."

"He didn't show up for work," Mr. Drake said. "The political science department called us when he didn't show up for the third day in a row. So I checked with his professors to find that he hasn't been at class for three days either. I tried calling his cell but I couldn't get an answer. I went over to Wesleyan to find that his car was still in the parking lot. I've called the police, but they can't do much at this point."

Logan seemed to take a few seconds to process this information. "We haven't heard from him." He turned to Rogue. "Has he called you?"

Why would he call her? She shook her head. "You should call Kitty."

Logan pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

"Who's Kitty?" Mr. Drake asked.

"His girlfriend," Logan said quietly, scrolling through his phone and pressing the send button. He paced a little. Waited.

Rogue ignored the fact that Mr. Drake was staring at her. She watched as Logan waited, listening to the phone ring in his year. It must have kicked into voicemail because he left a brief, terse message: "Kitty, this is Logan. Call me when you get this." And hung up.

They were concerned then. They were all concerned. Logan's unease seemed more palpable than Mr. Drake's; he paced and rubbed his forehead and tried to hide his worry. Mr. Drake was probably thinking about bad things that could have happened to Bobby along the lines of getting jumped or mugged or drugged at a frat party. Logan was thinking in terms of HYDRA or S.H.I.E.L.D. or anti-mutant terrorists. His thoughts probably wandered to Cerebro—how easy life would be if one of them could use it.

Rogue didn't have a bad feeling, though. She figured that Kitty and Bobby took a trip or something.

Logan told Mr. Drake that they should discuss things with the headmistress. "She's teaching a class right now, but I'll pull her out." He led Mr. Drake out of the room and into the hallway.

Remy, who was standing right outside of the door, watched them thoughtfully as they retreated. Then he headed back into the room, hands in his pockets. "So many insights into Bobby's character." He smirked. "No wonder why that kid is so fucked up."

"What do you think happened?"

"Who knows, _petite_. Might as well not even worry about it. Worryin' does nothin'."

But later that night they found out—hours later. Storm and Logan had been about to crawl up the walls, debating about what they should or whether or not they should head over to Connecticut, and Mr. Drake had gone back to Connecticut to talk to the police. Then an email found its way to Storm's blackberry. She showed it to Logan.

Rogue was in bed by then, but Remy was still lurking around. He heard everything. He told her about it the next day. Over a Cajun breakfast of quiche and café au lait—which he brought to her bed. He sat on her bed and explained everything. "It wasn't like Storm flipped a shit this time," he said. "Not exactly. But she and Logan—they were both _méscontents_. Guess you can't blame them."

Bobby and Kitty had gotten married. They'd eloped.

"They're so young," Rogue said. She said this to hide the fact that she was hurt. She didn't know _why_ she was so hurt—not exactly. Was it because she wasn't friends with them anymore? If she'd been closer to Kitty, she would have perhaps helped her scheme and plot her secret wedding. Or maybe she would have tried to talk her out of it.

Rogue was hurt because she was envious. Was she envious because she still loved Bobby? No, she knew that wasn't it. She had moved on from Bobby—really didn't have any regrets about it, either. He was just her high school boyfriend. She was envious because she was not in love and had never known the kind of love that would possess someone to run away and get married, leaving her classes and her friends to go stand in front of some judge. That was some kind of love—love at its purest, free of obligations and adult responsibilities and ordinary societal conventions. Bobby and Kitty will have stories to tell their children, stories about how they just couldn't wait anymore because they loved each other so much. To hell with wedding dresses and reception halls and bridesmaids—to hell with their parents' wishes. Now they'll have stories about their lean, early years—no money, living in married student housing, postponing their honeymoon for when they're thirty. Stories about how no one wanted them to be together. It was, Rogue thought, impressively romantic.

Rogue isn't even sure if she wants to get married. Most southern girls start planning their weddings by the time they hit middle school, but Rogue had never been that type. Or perhaps she had been, in a different life. In any case, she doesn't think about getting married anymore.

"They are young," Remy agreed. He seemed to sense Rogue's change in mood. "Wonder what their parents'll say. Bet they'll blame the school here."

Even when she and Bobby dated, Rogue never thought they'd get married. There was her mutation to deal with, for one thing. She'd loved Bobby, but deep down inside she'd always sensed that he'd move on. Feared it—even when they were at their happiest, their pre-Alkali Lake puppy love days, that sweet early part of the relationship. Even then she was anxious and insecure. (John had once called her a psycho girlfriend because she was always trying to figure out where Bobby was at all hours of the day—but when she'd pulled off her gloves he'd shut up.) Even back then she'd known she wouldn't be able to blame him for leaving her—she'd have to understand. She'd always understand. Still, she'd been desperate to keep him. Desperate enough. When he'd started spending time with Kitty, she knew. But that wasn't what broke them up.

What broke them up was change. After the cure she wasn't insecure anymore—she wasn't anything. She was a different person. How could she make him understand? Even she did not know what had happened. She came back from the city changed. Everything at the mansion was fuzzy and distant. And without John around to cut the tension, everything was disordered, and everything was finished.

No one knew what she had been through. Not Logan, not Storm, and especially not Bobby. No one knew what it was like to stand in a line and endure such hatred, torrents of abuse and threats from the other side of the street. Some protesters had snapped her picture with a camera phone. Someone had threatened her life. Then there was the cure itself. Four hundred dollars in cash, up front, and you could close the book on your mutation for good. The injection was painful, radiated up your arm—the doctors had to strap you down because you convulsed, lost control. For minutes afterwards, everything went dark. You went blind.

She recovered afterwards on a cot in a triage. Her vision came back. A nurse offered her orange juice and crackers. Asked her if there was someone she could call. There wasn't. She took a cab back to the train station.

For months afterwards she had dreams.

Ask yourself: How could anyone understand? How could she make them understand?

After the dust settled, after Alcatraz, and after the professor and Scott and Jean were all dead, there was just Bobby. Who didn't know. Who didn't want to know. By that time he was spending more time with Kitty—they shared Alcatraz. They shared the team. They'd been through this awful thing together. They'd seen people die. They'd seen mutants die. Maybe they'd done the killing. Forget Liberty Island—Alcatraz was a bloodbath. Mutant-on-mutant violence. So they had their own grief, their own anguish. Their own growing up to do. In comparison, Rogue's private anguish must have seemed trivial. She had not fought or killed. She had just made a choice.

The threats started a month after she took the cure. Someone had tracked her down, gotten her name, and figured out that she lived at Xavier's. She got letters, obscene. She tore most of them up and flushed them down the toilet. Some she burned. One time she received a larger envelope, a package. Without thinking she opened it. (She had thought it was a J. Crew sweater she'd ordered.) It was a syringe with a note taped to its side. The ink was red—like it'd been written in blood. One word: _TRAITOR_.

She'd opened the package in the hallway. Thought no one was around. Tried to stuff the syringe back into the envelope, but her hands were shaking. She wondered where that thing had been.

Logan came around the corner, a box under one arm. And saw her. "Hey," he said. "What's that?" He set the box down on a table.

She told him it was nothing. Tried turning away.

"If it's nothing then let me see it."

She drew in a quick breath. Tears of humiliation stung her eyelids. She held onto the envelope. He moved so that he was facing her and then gently pried it from her hands. Looked at it. She turned away.

"Who sent you this? Do you have any idea?"

She covered her mouth with her hand and clenched her eyes shut shook her head.

"Have you ever gotten something like this before?" he asked.

Without looking at him, she nodded. She was so embarrassed. She had wanted to keep this from Logan, this humiliation and degradation.

"Oh, kid," he said. He reached over and touched her shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She bit her lip and blinked to keep tears from falling. She shrugged.

"I'll take care of it," he said, clutching her shoulder. "Why don't you head into the rec room? They're all about to watch a movie."

She did not go into the rec room. Instead she went outside and sat in the fading sunlight. She knew she had to move out.

She never got another letter. She suspected that Logan carefully screened her mail, though he never said anything. She managed to finish her credits that semester—a whole semester early, earlier than Bobby and Kitty and Peter. She stopped hanging around the mansion so much—came home only to sleep. She got a job waiting tables at a nearby restaurant and decided to put her tips toward college living expenses. She got accepted to all of the schools she applied to—all run-of-the-mill state schools—with generous financial aid packages from SUNY Plattsburgh and CUNY Hunter. She would have liked to go to Hunter—would have liked to be in the city—but she knew she couldn't swing the cost of living.

And in Plattsburgh no one knew her. One day, halfway through her first semester, she got a large, weird-looking envelope in the mail. Fear gripped her. But it turned out to be nothing—just a community survey. She tossed it into the trash.

She got all A's. _All._ Took extra classes. Worked and went to school during the summer. She was on the three-year plan; in her second year she already had junior standing. Her professors took an interest. She wasn't a very vocal student—had never been a Kitty Pryde—but she was motivated. Her papers were well-written and incisive (she had Mr. Summers to thank for that). She had a good grasp of American history and social institutions (that was Ms. Munroe) and she always wrestled with enduring questions and placed contemporary concerns in a larger social context (the professor). Plattsburgh was no Columbia, no Yale, and not even Binghamton, so a lot of the kids were just there to party—and Rogue stood out. Her anthropology professor got her a job working with the archives.

Her success surprised her—and then she got addicted to it. She'd never excelled academically in Mississippi. At Xavier's she'd been decent but un-outstanding. The only teacher who seemed to notice her was Mr. Summers. In his class she wrote a poem about the fact that she was starting to lose her accent, and he hung it on the wall and sent it off to a couple of local literary magazines. (She doesn't know if anyone wanted to publish it; Dr. Grey died soon after that and Mr. Summers stopped teaching.)

So Rogue went to college and worked her way through that first year. And all of the summer. Tried to put the mansion out of her mind. Then, that fall, she felt herself start to slow down. Felt the first prick of pain behind her eyes. Got allergies and colds that wouldn't go away. That was it, wasn't it? She hadn't realized at the time. Or maybe she had. Maybe that was why she stopped working so hard. She used to go sit in the grass behind her dorm under a tree and watch the sun leave the sky. Felt the wind move against her arm. Numbered the trees. Felt as if she was working very hard to remember everything, but not school things. Not the past. She fixed herself on this: the way the sky looked, the way things sounded, the way music filtered from the windows. All that stuff at Xavier's—it seemed so long ago. She wondered if this was depression. But she didn't feel depressed, didn't feel sad. She used to wish that things would just be over with so she could get on with her life: school, college, exams, long classes, holidays at the mansion, boring TV shows. But then, by that point? She'd stopped wishing for things to end. Decided to endure them instead. Decided to let things just happen. Willed the world not to go by so fast. Started looking at people, really looking—the kids from her dorm, the frat boys in the dining hall, her professor with spiked gray hair. And when Logan called her and asked if she was coming "home" for Thanksgiving, she said yes, of course. She wanted to look at him, too. All of them.

###

On the day she has to go to New Haven for her first treatment, she decides to wear her favorite clothes—a pair of fitted dark jeans she bought in the city when she went shopping with Jubilee, who loves to shop more than she does, and her dark green J. Crew sweater. And a pair of boots. She hasn't been out of the mansion for so long. Any excuse to dress nicely will do—even an appointment at a hospital to have poison leaked into her veins. Anything.

She doesn't feel as weak as usual. She must be feeding off her nervousness. She makes her way from her room to the study.

Logan and Storm are in there. She can hear them talking; the door is slightly ajar. (They probably think it is closed.) She listens.

Logan is saying, "They're two adults. We can't do anything."

Storm says, "I know." She sounds resigned. "They're making a mistake, but it's out of our hands."

"Who says it's a mistake?" Logan says. "We don't know that yet. It could work out."

"True," Storm says. "It could work out. Whether or not it should remains to be seen."

"I'm not even going to pretend to know what you mean by that. Anyway," Logan says, and it sounds like he's moving around the room, "I hope she doesn't get pregnant. I hope they know a thing or two about birth control. If she gets pregnant and they have to drop out of school—then it would be a mistake."

Rogue raises her hand and knocks on the door. A second later, Logan pulls it open.

"Oh," he says, standing there. Artless as always. "You're ready to go?"

She nods. She watches as Storm gets up from the sofa and comes over to hug her. (Storm has been different lately—more supportive. Rogue appreciates this. She no longer feels that Storm holds all of this against her.) She wraps her arms around Rogue and pushes her hair behind her shoulders. "Good luck, honey. I'm sure everything will be fine. You look nice today. Are you feeling better?"

Rogue nods.

Logan is going for his jacket, which he has stashed on the hook behind the door.

They run into Remy in the hallway. He looks at her and winks. He has this weird sparkle in his eye—this mischief. But she knows it's an act. She knows him by now. He is equal parts mystifying and sad. Very sad. He's got a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He told her he was going to quit smoking, but he hasn't seemed to get around to it so far.

"You want me to come too, _petite_?"

"That's okay," she says. She knows this is going to be terrible. She doesn't want him to be there. She doesn't want him to see her afterwards either.

She and Logan make the long drive to New Haven. They talk about ordinary things—what's going on at the mansion, what kind of field trip they have planned for spring break. (He's lobbying Storm—he wants to take the kids someplace warmer than Washington, D.C.)

Then Logan brings up Bobby and Kitty. That surprises her; no one has yet included her in a conversation about Bobby and Kitty except Remy, who privately thinks it's entertaining. ("All those years Scott and Jean couldn't bring themselves to tie the knot," he says, "and then those two can't even wait till they reach the legal drinking age.") Logan says, "I just can't believe they did that. Storm, I think, feels insulted. She doesn't know why they didn't come to us."

"They probably knew you'd talk them out of it," Rogue says, looking out the window at the bland winter landscape, the snow and the dark and the trees. "They knew you wouldn't approve."

"Of course we don't approve. They're too young. They haven't even started their lives yet. But it's not that, it's just—" He grips the steering wheel.

It's just that they're family, Rogue thinks. Team members. And team members aren't supposed to keep secrets from each other. Not secrets like that. That's why Logan and Storm are offended. Kitty and Bobby just ran off. They didn't call or write until after it was over. Peter and Jubilee were in on it too. Peter was the best man and Jubilee was the maid of honor. They all went out afterwards and partied.

"Thanks," Logan says.

She turns her head to look at him.

"For not pulling any shit like that," he explains. "You were always the reliable one."

Except when she ran off to New York to alter her cellular make-up. And left the X-Men high and dry right before Alcatraz. Seriously, has he forgotten? She just nods.

The hospital is like any other—bright interior, carpeted waiting room with flowered wallpaper and comfortable chairs and sofas. At least this is what it must look like for Logan. She leaves him there when they call her name. He says he'll come with her, but she makes him stay. There are things for which she wants to be alone.

When it's over she feels fine—initially. She finds him in the waiting room and he stand up and they walk out together. She even manages to walk all the way through the parking garage. But in the car on the way home the anti-nausea medication kicks in and she starts shivering. Then she falls asleep.

When she wakes up Logan has opened the passenger's side door. He's reaching over to take off her seat belt. She opens her eyes wide enough to recognize that she's in the mansion's garage. They're home. He's pulling her forward. She figures out that he's trying to carry her. She puts her hand on his shoulder. "I can walk," she says.

"I've got you."

"I don't want the kids to see me. And keep Remy away." She manages to stand, his arm around her waist. He guides her, half-holding her, into the mansion, past the rec room, past the kitchen, and into the room where she's been living. He lays her on the bed and pulls off her boots. She can't keep her eyes open anymore. She hears him leave and tries to roll over. But then he comes back. No—it's not him. It's Storm. She hears Storm open and close one of her drawers. Then she comes over and helps Rogue sit up. Undresses her and slips a nightgown over her head. Lays her back down and piles the covers and sheets on top of her. She feels Storm touch her hair, pulling it back from her neck. "I'll be back to check on you."

And that's it. She's out.

She has no idea how much time goes by, but when she wakes up she's sweating. She's nauseated and it's painful and she doesn't want to move because she knows that as soon as she moves she's going to throw up. She rolls over and out of bed and staggers for the waste basket. When she's done she knows she's going to be even sicker. She needs the bathroom. She stands up, fumbles for the door, and makes her way down the hall and to the unisex bathroom. Luckily no one is there. (She is very lucky.)

When she's finished being sick, she lies down on the bathroom floor. She's planning on resting for just a second before heading back to her room, but she passes out. She doesn't know how long she lies there. Then she hears a knock. Faint at first, then louder. More urgent. One of the kids. Shit. Why can't they just go upstairs to use the bathrooms there? She manages to call out from the floor, half-awake. "I'll be done in a sec."

"Rogue? _Chere_? You in there? You okay?"

Her nightgown is bunched up around her waist. She struggles to pull it down. Before she has a chance to gather herself, to tell him to go away, or to stand and open the door, he does something to the lock and opens the door. And she can't see him, can't turn her head or sit up, but she feels him standing in the doorway. Then he closes the door over and moves toward her. Says her name again.

He kneels down next to her. "Hey sweetie," he whispers. There is a lightness in his voice, a lightness for which she's thankful. "Bathroom floor ain't a good place to catch a nap. Don't worry, Remy's here. I got you." He reaches around and rolls her over, puts an arm under her knees and another behind her back and lifts her. Carries her into the hallway. Thank God there's no one around—no one she can see, anyway.

When they reach her bedroom Storm seems to come out of nowhere. "What happened?" she asks. "Shit."

"I got it," Remy says quietly. He puts her down on the bed and reaches for the covers. "Go back to work."

"I'll watch her," Storm says. She goes over to open a window to air the place out. "Logan's got self-defense class."

Remy goes for the waste basket and picks it up. "I got it, Storm. Go. You look tired. Too tired. Why you workin' so hard? I told you to quit that. I've got this under control."

Storm retreats without a word. Remy takes the trashcan away and comes back minutes later. She's lying in bed, her eyes closed. But she's not sleeping. She hears him pull the chair out from the desk. When she opens her eyes she expects to find him playing solitaire but instead he's got a book open. A book called _A Bend in the River_.

She groans quietly. She's so embarrassed. She wanted to keep this from him. It would have been better if Logan had found her. Or Storm. But Remy is a different kind of friend. She doesn't know why, but she doesn't him to see her as needy, as some girl who needs to be rescued. And she thinks this is weird because she knows he's had his own moments—he showed up in New Haven months ago without a place to live and only the clothes on his back, and he had to be rescued by Kitty of all people. And also he's a recovering drug addict—he's told her that he's been in and out of rehab a lot. Heroin. Cocaine. Prescription painkillers. He's needed people to bail him out more times than she has.

He turns around. "What's wrong? You sick again?"

She shakes her head and looks at the ceiling. "I just feel so shitty."

He looks back at his book. "I know." A pause. "But you'll feel better tomorrow. And even better the next day."

Until she has to go back to New Haven next week. This isn't rehab. She's not a drug addict who can go to some resort to dry out. And she's angry all of a sudden, angrier than she's been so far. She _won't_ feel better tomorrow, not really. There's no getting better here. Doesn't Remy know anything? How could he make such a statement? And Jesus Christ, what is he doing here in Westchester County? Moping because he lost his home. A home is nothing— _nothing_. And why did he do all those drugs anyway? If she had perfect health, she wouldn't throw it away on drugs and cigarettes and alcohol. Forget health—what has he done with his life? He's had a life, all these years behind him, more years than she'll probably get, and he still knows nothing.

She feels herself seethe for a minute. Then, swallows it. He really doesn't know any better. He's trying. "What are you reading?" she asks.

He flips the book over and looks at the cover. "A book I'll never finish. Ain't much of a reader. Never have been. That's Logan. And Storm. And you. But listen to this." He flips the pages back. "'The world is what it is; men who are nothing, who allow themselves to become nothing, have no place in it.'" He looked up at her and shrugged. "These days I get bored. Winter, you know. Can't go outside much. I always hated the winters up here." He clears his throat. "You want me to read it to you?"

She shakes her head. "That's okay." She rolls over, away from him. Wishes he'd go away. She's angry, but she's also tired. Tired wins. Sleep pulls her away.

When she awakens it's dark outside. She's alone. Then she hears footsteps in the hallway and then her door cracks open a little. She turns over. It's him. " _Petite_ ," he whispers. "How you feel?"

"Shitty," she says.

"You hungry?" He walks into her room and flips on the small desk lamp. He has a plate of food. "You must be. Look, Rogue. Chicken patties." He grins. "Everybody's favorite." Then he laughs. "Only God knows why."

She smiles in spite of everything. "It's everybody's favorite because everything else sucks."

"I offered to be the cook, but Storm wouldn't even consider it." He holds the plate out to her.

She accepts it. It's a chicken patty on a roll with French fries with ketchup on the side. It actually looks really good. She is hungry. She's lost more weight and knows she has to try to eat something. Even if she only keeps it down momentarily.

Logan rolls up to the doorway. "I came to check on you before. But you were out."

She keeps eating.

"How do you feel?"

"Terrible." No use lying to Logan. She shrugs.

He nods. Looks at Remy. "I'll sit with her."

"No one needs to sit with me," she says. "Jesus Christ. I'm not a kid. I'll be fine." She hands the plate back to Remy. "I'll probably throw this up, though."

Remy laughs. "You wouldn't be the first."

She doesn't laugh with him. He watches her. The smile drops from his face. He holds the plate close to his body and looks away.

He must sense that she's angry, that she's got some rage. And right now that rage is directed toward him. He must know. He must sense it. And Logan must too. Logan senses everything. "Come on," Logan says to Remy, his voice quiet and patient. Like he's talking to one of the students. They leave her alone in the room and when they're gone she gets up and turns off the light.

###

Bobby and Kitty have been avoiding the mansion. They haven't been back in days. They don't want to face the music, i.e. Storm. Rogue knows what that's like. If either of them had the guts to call Rogue, she'd tell them how to handle Storm. She could write a book about disappointing Storm.

Three days after her treatment, she feels well enough to get around again. She's not throwing up anymore. She throws on jeans and a sweatshirt and pulls on her sneakers. Doesn't bother to shower or brush her teeth. Gets her jacket out of the hall closet and walks down the corridor. She wants to go outside.

Outside there's been a thaw. It's warmer than it's been—snow spilling away. She's been watching from her window. Spring is still weeks and weeks away, but this respite will do.

It's Saturday. She walks past the rec room. A few kids are on the couch watching a cartoon—Jason and Hernan and Cynthia. Armina is on the floor. She's telekinetic. She's facing away from them, balancing a shoe on her finger. "This is nothing," she tells them. "I can do better." But they don't care. They're tired of Armina and just want to watch TV.

Rogue stuffs her hands in her jacket pockets and walks past them. Then she spots Logan and Remy on the other side of the rec room at the table. Near the wall. They look up when she walks past. They're writing checks. Well, Logan is writing checks. Logan writes them, Storm signs them, and Remy stuffs them into envelopes before running them through the meter. Then Logan balances the books.

Remy looks up and Logan turns around. "Where are you going?" Logan asks.

"I'm just going for a walk," she says.

"Where?" Logan says.

Jesus. Like she's really going to run off to the train station? To New York? She's tempted to tell him that she's going to Philadelphia. Just to see how he reacts. "Just around campus. To see the horses."

"I'll go with you," Remy says. He stands from the table.

"You don't have to," she says. Meaning: she wants to be alone.

"Been wantin' to take a walk." He grabs his jacket—it's slung over the chair. Logan asks him about the checks. "Plenty of time for the checks, _mon ami_. The mailman's already been here anyway. They won't go out till Monday."

So she stands there and waits for Remy and he comes over and they walk outside together. In the yard the air is cool but moist, humid and wet from the melting snow. They head off down a path that was shoveled weeks ago. The running trail.

She's still angry with him. She's just angry. Anger is better than guilt. Cleaner. And feeling sorry for yourself gets old. It's easier to be angry at Remy right now. To be angry at Warren, too, because he comes from the family that made the stupid cure, and to be angry at Kitty and Bobby for running away and getting married and not telling her anything, and acting like they have to hide things from her, like she's a person they need to hide things from. And Logan. God, she's so pissed at Logan. Talk about hiding things. She doesn't even know where to begin.

Instead she just walks in silence. And Remy's quiet too. He doesn't feel the need to talk, the need to fill emptiness. So she turns to him. "Why did you want to come with me?" She's curious, not accusatory.

He shrugs. "I need the exercise." He looks ahead and nods. "The stables are over here."

"I didn't really want to see the horses."

"Oh."

They walk in silence. They walk to the edge of campus. Then they walk around to the road. It's a two-lane highway. Cars come by only occasionally, but he walks between her and the lane. When he hears one coming he steers her to the grass. She finds this amusing and says something about it. "Folks are crazy," he tells her. "You should see the way I drive, _chere_." Then, in a jacked-up accent: "Dis Cajun like ta drive on de wrong side o' de road. Don' stop for no one. What you t'ink 'bout dat?"

She grins. "Is that how they really talk where you're from?"

"Only my ex-wife. Everyone else has joined society. We have TV down there now. The internet too." Gives her a small half smile.

And she's back to liking him. When a truck blows by, he grabs her arm and pushes her away from the road, into the ditch. She can feel her feet getting wet in the melting snow. She doesn't care.

"You want to see something?"

"Sure," she says.

He stops and looks at her. Tucks his hands in his pockets for a moment and then nudges her toward the trees. And then pulls ahead. Leads her into the forest. About fifty yards in. They comb past wet trees and bushes, stark and barren, their bark dark and wet. Then he stops in front of one in particular. A large oak tree beside a small stump. Then goes over and kicks the stump. It springs open. It is not a stump. It is a box, a dark little box. "Fooled ya, didn't it?" he says.

She nods. "What is that?"

He looks down at it. Takes a deep breath and exhales. "How much time do you have?" He pauses, then rephrases his question. "I mean, do you want to head back to the mansion now or can you stay here?" He drags his glance from the box to her. Gone is any trace of amusement from his face. He points at the box. "It's a drop. An information drop. Say you're trafficking information and you need to get a message to somebody. But you can't go back to the house. That's what this thing's for."

She looks at the box. She knows he wants her to ask certain questions. She wants her to draw him out. She has a part to play here. He needs her to play it. Needs her to ask. "What kind of information?"

"This was mine. Storm's was on the other side of the campus." His gaze flickers over to her. "Information about the war. The war that was gonna happen. _La lucha_." He turns away and brings his hand to his chin. "Spies during the Cold War used to use drops. But our struggle started when the Cold War was nearly over. You must have been just a little thing then." He exhales loudly. Then turns and levels a gaze at her. "How much do you know?"

She doesn't quite know what he's asking. "What do you mean?"

"Did Storm tell you? About the nineties?"

"A little. She said it was a dangerous time. A lot of anti-mutant activity."

He steps closer to her. "How much do you know about Sentinels?"

"Um," she says. He is making her a little uncomfortable. She can no longer see the arc of this conversation—she has no idea where it is going to go. And it scares her. "She and Logan put us in a simulation one time. Sentinels. We freaked out. Then I found out later that those things had been turned loose after Alkali Lake. They kept it from most of us at the time."

He nods, hands still in his pockets. His eyes dart away. "You've seen the tunnels under the school. Those tunnels aren't bomb shelters. They weren't left over from the fifties. Xavier had those put in when I worked here. We really thought, this is it. I don't think anyone knows how close we really came."

She tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear.

"It's quiet now. Stryker's dead. Gyrich—who knows." He closes his eyes and sighs. "Hell's too good. I would have taken Stryker out. Damn." He turns away as if realizing he's said too much. "Y'all squared off with Magneto a few times since then, right? But that wasn't the half of it."

"Magneto tried to kill me," she says.

"Magneto tried to kill me for years. Gave everyone from here to Honolulu to San Juan the green light to take me out. Funny thing is, I hid in plain sight out West. Vegas. There were a few attempts made on my life—a few piece-of-shit attempts." He stops and laughs, but it's a mirthless laugh. "No one ever played Magneto like me. I went undercover in his crew. Fed Scott and the professor all kinds of information. He couldn't figure out who was doin' it. They all suspected me—I was the obvious choice for a rat 'cause they knew I'd been an X-Man—but ultimately I was just too damn clever. Bluffing's a good skill to have if you're gonna lie for a living. And set someone else up for the things you're doin', the rules you're breakin'. You gotta be ruthless." He looks away. The smile has dropped from his face. "People lined up on either side of the fence. Charles and Erik both wanted to stop the Sentinels, but for different ends. Xavier wanted integration and Magneto just wanted to provoke the war to get it over with. He thought it was inevitable. But you know what was scarier? The other folks. The ones who stood to profit from mutants' misery. The Sebastian Shaws and Emma Frosts of the world."

She has no idea what he's talking about. He's lost her. Completely.

But the fact remains: she's never seen him like this. He's a different person here in the woods. And she realizes: this is what he brought here to see. Not the drop. Him. The real him. He knows she's angry, knows she's got him pegged for something he's not. But he doesn't care that she's angry—not really. He's too old to care. His life is all behind him, and her anger, her sickness—it's all just a momentary bit of static. She can feel her own insignificance. This guy in front of her—she doesn't know what he's talking about. But she can guess. He's talking about wars and taking people out. Maybe he's not who she thinks he is—maybe he's gotten people killed. Maybe he's killed people. She does not know why he's telling her this. Maybe he just needs someone to tell.

She clears her throat. None of this scares her the way it might a normal person. She remembers the night that soldiers broke into the mansion and Logan killed several of them—one right in front of Bobby. Like he was born to do that. Like he'd been waiting to do that. People do this. Bobby and Kitty—maybe they'll be like that someday. But still, Remy unsettles her. The way he speaks about it. Or that he speaks about it at all. Or that he speaks about it so calmly. But she's glad, then. Glad he doesn't tell everything. Right now she doesn't want to know. Isn't strong enough.

She asks, "What was it like? I mean, all that." She doesn't know why she asks this. It seems like a stupid question—and out of step. And she really doesn't want to know.

But he laughs again. Not at her, though. "What was it like. Oh, _chere_." He crouches down in front of the drop. Then looks up at her, his face vacant, his eyes blank. She can't read him. And in a voice that's just as blank, he says, "It becomes a part of you."

She looks down. Looks at her shoes, covered in mud and melting snow. The energy has drained from her body. Now she's fighting just to stand. Her feet are cold and wet. That's all she remembers about this moment.

He straightens. "Worst thing is, we didn't do enough. That shit could still be out there. Waiting to be activated. Doesn't matter that the president likes us or that Hank is a goddamn ambassador. Ask Logan why he trains so hard. And Storm—" He stops. Looks away and taps his lips with his finger. "Shit." Gazes back toward the mansion. Then he goes over and closes the box. It becomes a tree stump again. But she'll always know where it is. "We should go back. It's gettin' cold. It'll be dark soon."

She walks over to the stump. Sits on it. "I'm sorry," she says, "but I can't walk back." She looks up at him. "I just can't."

"Oh," he sighs. Looks distressed—like he's just snapped back to himself, like he's just realized that he brought a very sick girl out to the woods to talk about death and destruction. He goes to her. "No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, hon. I can carry you, how's that?"

"It's far."

"Ain't that far." He bends down and scoops her up. He is very strong—she's not surprised. She holds onto his shoulders. It is, she thinks, impressively romantic. Except that it's not. She's too weak to stand and he is who he is. He carries her down the road and up the path to the house. He doesn't even have to stop to catch his breath. But when they get close enough, she tells him to put her down. She can walk the rest of the way on her own. And she doesn't want anyone to see her being carried.


	26. Chapter 26

"Who are you?"

"Remy Etienne LeBeau."

"Where are you from?"

"New Orleans, Louisiana."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-four."

"Why did you move to New York?"

"I needed a change of scenery."

"What do you do?"

"Whatever lines my pockets."

"Who do you work for?"

"Myself. Or the highest bidder. Sometimes both."

"I thought you worked for Charles Xavier."

"I used to."

"Why don't you work for Xavier anymore?"

"He found out what I was. He found out about my past and cast me out."

"What about your past?"

"I was an extortionist and a racketeer."

"What else?"

"Chas and I don't see eye to eye. I want revenge and he don't."

Pause. "That's not the only reason he got rid of you, is it?"

"He found out that I'm responsible for the Mutant Massacre."

"How are you responsible for the Mutant Massacre?"

"I gave up locations of secret Morlock hiding places."

"Why?"

"Because I was a prisoner and it was the deal I made for my freedom. I would do it again if I had to."

"Who held you prisoner?"

"William Stryker."

"What would you like to do to William Stryker?"

"Kill him. And exterminate the brutes he worked with."

"What else do you want to do?"

"To kill those who would kill us. Any means necessary."

"Anything else?"

"How much money you offering?"

"What's your social security number?"

"Don't have one."

Jean paused. She stood over him. He was doing pushups in the weight room, answering her questions between breaths. He finished his set and rolled over for sit-ups.

He laughed. "Ain't no lie, _chere_. No birth certificate neither."

"Now tell me your password," she said.

"Desperado."

She held up her hand. "Stop. Stand up. You're doing well, but you need to be able to answer these questions looking me in the face."

He rolled upwards and climbed to his feet. "Can you tell whether or not I'm lyin' or tellin' the truth?"

She squinted at him. "Um, it's hard to tell. You've definitely gotten a lot better these past few days. But it's not perfect. There's some dissonance. You'd fool an inexperienced telepath, but one with enough skill might pick up on the fact that you're starting to disconnect yourself from your untruthful answers. When you're undercover, you need to believe your answers, Remy. True or false. That's why this is so hard." She walked over to a chair in the corner and sat down. He followed her. He sat on the ground next to her, his legs tucked under him. A bead of sweat dripped from his nose.

"I can do this."

"I think you can. But I don't want you to. This is so dangerous."

"I can handle it."

She narrowed her eyes. "It's not the physical danger that scares me. It's the mental stuff. If you're not careful you could lose yourself. The mind is such a delicate thing. Trust me, I know."

Beating a telepath was a bit like beating a lie detector. But harder. But there were ways. Psychopaths and pathological liars could beat telepaths. Jean was teaching him about thought substitution, how you had to switch out questions in your mind so that you could ask yourself one question while your enemy asked another. There were other ways, too—psionic blocks, hypnosis. About these methods they were more hesitant, and the professor was the most hesitant of all. Remy was just going to have to get very good at lying.

The professor was ambivalent about this project. Still, he recognized its necessity. D.C. had definitely raised the stakes. Let them see how far Magneto was willing to go. And the Sentinels were less than four years away from deployment. They had to move. They needed Remy to go inside to crack Magneto's organization. They needed information. They needed leverage.

Jean looked closely at him and her eyes softened. "I worry about you. You're so vulnerable." She reached over and touched his upper back. "D.C. was hard. I'm sorry. About everything. I don't want to see you rush into this because of D.C. and what happened there."

Remy just sat there. Then he said, "How's Scott?"

"Much better."

Scott took a brick in the head in D.C. Scary thing was, it didn't affect him that much at first. He got up and walked away. But by the next morning he was puking. And by the time they flew him back to the mansion, he was in bad shape. Jean did an MRI and found out that he had a concussion. For the past two weeks he'd been recovering. He was also a bit depressed. He'd found out about his brother.

Scarier thing? D.C. had been a success.

Jean turned to him and looked him in the eyes. "Okay, let's try again. Who are you?"

###

Two weeks before, he and Jean had boarded the D.C. metro at Union Station to go to the Convention Center. They were staying at a hotel near Capitol Hill; Hank and Remy in one room, Scott and Jean in the other. The professor stayed by himself in an unregistered room that only they knew about. Storm was bunking with on-again-off-again X-Man Alison Blaire. (Remy felt bad for the sister—she couldn't bunk with Hank and Remy because it would be awkward and she couldn't bunk with Scott and Jean because it would be even more awkward. And she certainly couldn't bunk with the professor, because that would be the most awkward thing of all. So she had to stay with some West-coast thirty-something singer with a bad late-eighties coiffure. Girlfriend always got the shaft.)

Hank and the professor had left for the conference early in the morning. Scott and Storm went to debrief Secret Service. Remy wasn't doing anything at the conference but security detail. Jean was presenting so she took more time to get ready. He stayed with her and helped her carry her things to the metro station. She had a lot of shit—a poster board and a box filled with handouts. In her briefcase she had her slides and her notes. "What kind of egghead shit are you gonna be talkin' about, _chere_?"

"I told you. Hank and I do this every year." And then she started talking about gene conversion and mapping the mutant genome or something. (He had no clue what she was talking about. The GED hadn't covered that.)

While they waited for the train, he balanced her poster board on his foot and smiled at her. They sat down on the bench. "So, do you think Storm is regretting that she broke up with me?"

Jean sighed and stared straight ahead. This wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. "You'd have to ask her."

"But I'm asking you because I know you know."

Storm's relationship with old Forge hadn't lasted very long. Suddenly they'd just stopped seeing each other. Remy figured Storm would come crawling back to him, but she didn't. She didn't even look at him. And that had him kind of miffed. He wouldn't have minded this break-up as much if she'd been really angry with him, stomping around or showering him with the occasional hailstorm. But she was quiet. She'd been cultivating a good poker face.

"I still think Forge had something to do with that Pentagon bullshit," Remy said.

"He didn't," Jean said. "But we have to find the person who did. So stop obsessing over Forge. Stop obsessing in general."

Remy bent over and ran his hand through his hair. Looked up at Jean. "I thought I was her first mutant boyfriend."

That statement got Jean. She laughed. Just looked at him and laughed. For a little too long. "Ro? You're kidding. She'd never date a non-mutant. Remy, I can't believe you didn't pick up on the fact that she's practically a closeted mutant supremacist. Doesn't trust normal people at all. Doesn't even want to be around them. It's something Charles has tried to knock out of her."

"I just don't understand what she saw in that guy."

Jean sighed. She was tired of taking him through this thing. "You've got to get over it. It's called a break up, Remy. We've all had them."

He sat back and snapped his fingers. "Yeah, except you."

"Don't be so sure about that. Scott and I broke up when I started med school."

He studied her. Her long red hair was pulled back; she was wearing a pair of pearl earrings and a matching necklace. Her blouse was silky and pink and she just looked classy and damn good. He could smell her perfume. (He remembered—and this was a weird thing to remember—when he and Dan had their cross-country search for Logan in '79 and they stopped for lunch at a busy park in downtown Denver. They watched as women walked by. The younger and skankier the better. "She would sleep with us," Dan would say, nodding at some hungover punk rock _flaca_ with orange hair and a Sex Pistols tee-shirt and fishnet stockings. "She'd let us fuck her in the ass." Then some businesswoman would walk by, some high-class lady with some important place to be, high heels and blazer and earrings and briefcase. Dan would give him a sideways glance. "She might. But don't bet on a blowjob.")

He said, "Scotty let you go? He's dumber than I thought."

She laughed again. "Oh no. I broke up with him." She adjusted the strap on her purse. "We'd been seeing each other for four years. I wanted a break. But when he started seeing someone else, I pretty much lost it. I couldn't sleep or eat. When I came home to train, I think Charles was distressed because I was so negative. I couldn't help it." She looked up. "A girl named Emma Frost."

He locked onto her. "Emma Frost?"

"I felt so insecure. She was so _attractive_. And she was a little older than he was, just like me. And a telepath, just like me. But I felt that she and Scott maybe had more in common. They'd been on the island together, and Emma had once lived at the mansion for a short time. We hadn't really gotten along. I worried that she could support him emotionally in ways I couldn't."

"Yeah, I know who Emma Frost is," he said, rankled. He couldn't believe Scott would actually date her. "I remember her from the same place." Back then she was just like everybody else: scared shitless, shell shocked and busy trying to fend off unwanted sexual advances from Creed and the other guards and soldiers. But he'd always felt that there was something different about Frost. It was as if she was detached from suffering. Like it didn't mean anything to her. He couldn't judge her—he was the guy who'd sent an entire underground city to Armageddon to save his own ass—but she was more calculated about things. Yes, that was it. What he'd done? It wasn't premeditated. It had just happened. Frost, on the other hand, always seemed to be plotting—deflecting attention from herself, even if it meant that some other kid would go hungry or get hit in the mouth—or worse. Remy was the opposite. Creed would go after some girl and Remy would step up and make some ripe comment. He was good at mocking Creed. What was the worst thing Creed could do—kill him? He'd be so lucky.

Torture did strange things to people.

Jean was looking at him. He remembered to keep his thoughts in check.

"So what happened?" he said.

"Nothing much. He broke up with her and we got back together. The whole hiatus lasted about a year. But my point is that I know a thing or two about breaking up with somebody."

The wind pulled at their hair and clothes—the train was coming. Jean grabbed her briefcase and Remy picked up the poster board and box.

Once they were situated on the train, Remy said, "So, happily ever after, huh? You and Scott. When are you gonna settle down? I think y'all should just have a bunch of dirty little babies and be done with it." He grinned. "Dirty little _mutant_ babies."

She raised her eyebrows at him. And then smiled.

"Oh hon," he said. "Really?"

"No," she said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She was still smiling. "But," she said, turning toward him as if to tell him a secret, "we're thinking about it. Remy, please don't tell anyone this. I'm not even telling Storm." She looked away and bit her lip. Her eyes darted with excitement. Then she looked back at him. "It's one of the reasons I'm going full time at the mansion."

"Does the professor know?"

Jean had reached a compromise with the professor. She agreed to finish her fellowship, but once it was over she was going to become the mansion's full-time medical doctor, as well as the school's instructor of biology and chemistry.

"He might," Jean said. "He wouldn't be too happy about it. I think he thinks we're too young. But I don't care. I stopped taking the pill and everything. Scott and I, we're serious about this. I mean, I'm twenty-seven. Not _that_ young. And I'm not getting any younger."

"Twenty-seven. _Mon Dieu_ , from where I'm sitting that looks young." He remembered twenty-seven. It seemed so long ago! That was the year he and Dan resolved to see every country before they died. They'd managed to scratch Costa Rica off their list. Hell of a vacation. (He wondered if he'd always measure time in relation to Dan. Even when he thought of his life before Dan—when he thought of his teens and early twenties—he thought of them in relation to how long that all was before he met Dan. His marriage: five years before meeting Dan. Getting locked up on the island: three years.)

"Oh yeah right, Remy," Jean said. "What are you now, all of thirty-three?"

"Thirty-four next week."

"Yeah, you're really getting up there." She was still smiling. "Well, if the professor had it his way, he'd want Scott and me to wait until we're forty."

"Nothin' makes a man feel older than grandchildren." He reached for her hand. Turned it over. "Let me see somethin'." He pulled her fingers back and peered at her palm. Squinted. "Two."

"Where?"

He pointed to a patch of skin beneath her pinky. "See? Two little lines crossing that big line. For two children."

"I don't see anything."

He tilted her palm toward the light. "I wouldn't lie, sweetie. Not about that." He looked at her. And squeezed her hand.

"Are they going to be thin? Tall? Good looking? Smart?"

He looked down and shook his head. Laughed. "Don't mock the magic."

"I'm not," she said. "Seriously."

And he seriously doubted that any child of theirs would be fat, dumb and ugly. "Tell you what," he said, still holding onto her hand. He peered into her eyes. "When we home? I'll do you a nice Tarot spread. And then I'll be able to tell you whether your kids will look like you or Scott. And when you get yourself knocked up? I'll do an astral chart based on the kid's due date. How's that?"

She squeezed his hand back. "I'm holding you to that."

What a weird morning. They got off the subway and road the escalator into the light. He stepped into the convention hall—past the protesters with their exhibits about the disappeared ones and the government experiments—and thought about Jean. She'd always been forthcoming with him, and always kind and sisterly, but he'd never felt as though she needed him. He needed her. He needed her reassurance the way he'd needed Dan's. Needed her to tell him that he was doing good work, that his leads would pan out, and that everything was going to be okay. She'd given him so much, and he'd never be able to repay her. But that morning she had shared herself with him, let him into her private world. And God, she was so excited about the prospect of having a baby. He was happy for her, but he also felt anxious. She was vulnerable. They all were.

He didn't like to think about the bad things that could happen to them, to all of them. And there was so much bad shit out there. He felt protective all of a sudden, more than usual. These folks he ran with—they were his family. He thought back to what Scott had told him that day in the car when he'd asked him to join the team—that they took care of each other. His heart ached when he thought about the ways a person could get hurt.

In D.C., the cops and Secret Service were working the city, stationed on every street corner. Crime was projected to spike this week, and that sucked. The last thing mutants needed was more bad press. They already had a reputation as thugs, thugs who couldn't control themselves. Mutants were angry—Remy of all people knew what made them angry—but he'd never understood why folks smashed things up and burned shit down. Even after what he'd been through—all those years ago—he'd never had the impulse to be especially _violent_. Not without provocation. If anything, he'd directed his anger at himself. Drugs. Alcohol. Self-abuse.

The conference was big and busy. It was run and sponsored by ordinary law abiding mutants, the type who had good jobs and organized things and took their concerns to their "right" people and circulated petitions. They were the public face of the mutant civil rights movement. Outside, and around the downtown area, different activities took place. A protest was scheduled to take place on the mall. And various organizations were setting up shop, trying to recruit members. Remy knew that some of these groups were unsanctioned Brotherhood spin-offs, mutants who took Magneto's word as gospel and tried to bring his cause to their hometowns and neighborhoods. Some were violent.

Other groups were even more violent. Underground mutant terrorist organizations. The types that bombed federal buildings and held people hostage. Just one week before, a terrorist organization had planted a bomb in a bank outside of Baltimore. They'd phoned it in minutes before the explosion. Casualties had been minimal, but the damage to property had been horrendous. The government was on high alert. Soldiers stood on street corners in the nation's capital. Disguised federal agents combed through crowds. Bishop had told him about how things were going to be.

Bishop had also told him something else. When they met previous week at a Taco Bell (his choice, not Remy's), Bishop handed him another file. Remy figured it was more information about the Pentagon break-in, but it wasn't. "That personal favor you requested," he said before taking a bite of his taco. "God, you guys never catch a break."

Remy opened the file. Alex Summers.

"When I punched Alex Summers into the system I got nothing," Bishop said between bites. "But the guy was adopted. So when I put in Alex Blandings? Nearly blew the database. Kid's got a rap sheet as long as that nice big stick of yours. Most of it's petty theft stuff, but what's getting the feds' attention is his participation in what we call like to call 'anti-American activities.'" He did the quote sign with his fingers.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Terrorism."

Remy looked down at the file. Alex Summers' too-young face stared back at him from the photograph. Mug shot. His eyes were blank. Remy didn't know what Scott's eyes looked like, but he doubted that they were blank like that.

"The kid bounces between his university and his girlfriend's. We think they're heavily involved in the Mutant Liberation Front, which operates out of the Southwest, loosely affiliated with the East coast Nasty Boys. We also think that he and his girlfriend might have broken into an army base in New Mexico and stolen some weapons. Chemical weapons. This is very serious. If this kid gets swept up for that? He'll do a life sentence in a federal prison. Easily."

What a bummer.

Bishop looked up and smirked. "So how's Africa?"

"We broke up," Remy said.

Bishop chuckled. "Came to her senses, did she? Can't say I didn't see that coming."

So Scott's little brother was a homegrown terrorist. _Dieu_ , he couldn't wait to break that little bit of news. As if things hadn't been shitty enough—the Sentinels, the assassination threat, Xavier's death threat.

Yeah, that was the other thing. Xavier had gotten a death threat earlier that week. They didn't think it was Magneto—in fact, they were certain it wasn't Magneto—but the whole thing had them scrambling. Scott urged the professor to stay away from D.C. but the man insisted on going down there. They had to stop Kelly's assassination, and the professor needed to be there for that. And it wasn't Kelly that they were afraid for—not really. It was them. The mutant population. A high-profile assassination was all the government would need to introduce some of its new "programs."

In any case, Remy held off on breaking the news to Scott. He planned to sit down with him after D.C. and lay it all out.

He picked up a conference schedule. There were sessions about everything—mutant health problems and the health care industry, discrimination, education, activism, literature, history, law and legal rights, and science. Xavier was a keynote speaker. He was also chairing a panel about ethics and telepathy.

Jean was in one of the rooms setting up for her talk. Hank was guarding the professor. Remy pushed his way through the conference hall, checking the rooms, jostling past the crowds of people, sniffing things out. He wasn't armed but his cards were tucked in his pockets.

It was time for the opening talk. Everything seemed to be in order. Folks took their seats in the auditorium. Remy guarded one entrance and Jean came up and stood at the other. People milled around outside in the hallways. He shut the door and scanned the crowd. He knew Jean was doing the same thing. The professor was sitting on the stage next to Hank and another colleague, Dr. Moira MacTaggart. The conference manager, a woman who was the head of some non-profit organization, introduced the professor, naming some of the projects the professor had been involved in—his contributions to academia and science. Books he'd published. Et cetera. Nothing about the Institute. There was a sharp report of applause and Xavier wheeled himself forward and lowered the microphone to speak.

Remy was not listening. He was watching the crowd. The professor quoted somebody famous and talked on and on about the importance of integration.

Remy wondered how many ordinary humans were present. He'd seen something on the schedule—a meeting time for a group of "concerned allies." Ordinary folks who were family and friends of mutants who had gone missing or been tortured. Or who had just been messed with. As always, thought of Dan. Remy wondered—and he found himself thinking about this a lot since Storm had dumped him—if he was the only one of the X-Men who'd had a very close relationship with a normal person. He'd never told Storm about his relationship with Dan—of course not—but naturally Jean knew. "What was it like?" Jean asked him one time. "Loving a human?" He knew that she didn't mean to sound immature or voyeuristic or anthropologically motivated. She came across as guileless and genuinely interested.

He told her the difference: that Dan's solution to Remy's problem of cold feet in the wintertime was to tell him pull on a pair of socks. Or to get him an electric blanket.

"How is that different?" she asked.

He laughed.

He didn't tell her the other stuff, the real stuff. The fact that people knew what they were: a couple of cats living together, mixed. Mixed in more ways than one: Dan was half Dominican and dark-skinned, but he was normal. Remy looked white and he could pass for normal, but rumors circulated about his special skills. (People had never forgotten about the night he put Logan through the wall of the club. Not as readily as he wished they would.) They lived in the south, they lived in New Orleans, and they were a couple of niggah-lovin' mutant-lovin' fag commies. And Dan's status as a college professor made him "uppity." Most folks were tolerant, but of course they got the occasional threat. Especially Dan, because people could mess with Dan. Until Remy got there, that is. Remy always set people straight. He couldn't stop the other threats, though—the brick someone threw through the window of the classroom where Dan was teaching, or the time Dan's tires got slashed.

Dan was really good about all that. In fact, when Remy looked back on things, he scolded himself for not appreciating just how good Dan had been about everything. Not just about the harassment. Him. Dan had put up with him all those years, his antics. His sketchy business practices. His penchant for attracting trouble. His emotional instability. Stubbornness. Self-destructiveness. Yeah, Remy had been all kinds of dick. Hard to live with. Hard to take. Inaccessible.

Technically they had never been a monogamous couple, and though Remy never slept with anyone Dan didn't approve of, he began to gradually suspect that Dan was yearning for something more stable. Worse, Dan had started going to therapy. "Oh God," Remy groaned when he found out. "Yeah," Dan said, "you might do yourself a favor and come with me. It might do you some good. It might do _us_ some good." Remy told Dan he was turning into a real yuppie, and Dan had just turned away.

These days when he thought about Dan—which he did early in the morning when waking up alone—he came to the same conclusion: Dan should have left him. And he probably would have, eventually. Why did Dan stick around all those years? What good would he have been to Dan, long term? The kid was a college professor and Remy was a professional thief. Remy wasn't exactly the kind of guy you could take to a faculty dinner. In the back of his mind, he always suspected that Dan would ditch him for a better dude. Someone sturdier. A little more refined. Less slutty. Less toxic.

One day Remy got mean about the fact that Dan wanted to have a bunch of old hairy professors over for dinner. He got goddamn nasty about it. He didn't know why—something had set him off. A lot of things were setting him off. He felt, at these times, as though he were standing outside of himself, listening and watching. He often felt wounded and irrational. He wasn't sleeping well.

Dan didn't leave the room or bitch him out or call him a selfish asshole—which would have been appropriate. Instead, he just closed the newspaper and stood up from the table. "If you don't want me to have anyone over, I won't, Remy. Jesus." He just looked at Remy, watched as Remy's leg twitched under the table. His eyes got very dark. "You know," Dan said, "there's this thing called post traumatic stress disorder. The doctors are diagnosing it a lot these days in Vietnam vets and former POWs." He cleared his throat. "Sex abuse victims often have it."

"If you got somethin' to say," Remy said, looking up at Dan. Looking him straight in the eyes. His leg kept twitching.

"The nightmares, the mood swings. The promiscuity, the drinking."

Remy stopped his leg from twitching. He got up from the table. He pushed past Dan to go to the bedroom, but Dan reached out and grabbed him by the arm. "Dan," Remy said, a warning tone. "Don't."

"Don't what? Wish you'd stop hating yourself? With you'd get help? Wish you'd feel okay for once?" He let go of Remy's arm, very gently. Tucked his own arms against his chest. "This isn't you, Remy," he whispered. "This isn't who you were supposed to be."

###

The day went smoothly. No trouble. The team was scheduled to meet up that evening the hotel bar to talk about their strategy for stopping the Kelly assassination. Jean and Remy took the tunnels back to Capitol Hill, and Scott and Storm met them at the hotel. Blaire was with Secret Service, going through some surveillance videos. Hank and the professor were supposed to drive back to the hotel, but they were late.

"Where are they?" Scott said.

They were sitting together at a table in the bar. The place was half empty.

"Stuck in traffic, I think," Jean said.

"You think?" Scott looked at her.

"Maybe. I'm not sure. My telepathy isn't that good. But I think I'd be able to tell if Charles and Hank were in distress."

Scott was nervous.

Remy was working his way through a pack of cigarettes, and Storm was too. Smoking was a habit she'd picked up from him. He laughed about that. Quietly. He was glad he'd made a little impact on her.

"Oh Jesus, Ro," Jean said when Storm lit a second cigarette. "I wish you wouldn't do that. It's filthy." She looked at Remy. "It's bad enough that you smoke, Remy."

Storm blew out a thin line of smoke. In Jean's direction.

Jean glared.

Storm was going through a weird phase—this angry early-twenties phase, this fuck this fuck that stage. Remy recognized it for what it was: fronting to hide fear and sadness and uncertainty. Unfortunately, Storm was misplacing her messed-up emotions. She directed most of her animosity at Jean.

Jean was patient with her though.

"I just don't understand," Storm said, taking another drag, "how you can supposedly read minds and not know whether or not someone is stuck in traffic. How hard can it be?" She blew out her smoke again, this time right in Jean's face. "Damn, Jean. You need to sharpen that skill a little more."

"Ro," Jean began. "Put that out. I mean it. I'd like to ask you why you feel the need to be like this right now when we have so much work to do."

"Ask yourself why you're such a cunt."

"Hey," Scott said, and Jean said "Ro" at the same time.

Storm's whole c-bomb thing wasn't funny anymore. It had gotten old. Remy put his cigarette out to show his solidarity with Jean. He sat back in his chair, crossed his leg over his knee, and looked at Storm. "That's not ladylike behavior. Be a lady."

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. They didn't talk much these days. Storm was furious at the professor, too—furious he'd let Remy get away with framing Forge. Not even a slap on the wrist. "Drop the lady shit," she said. "You're not in the south anymore. There are no southern ladies here. Just a couple of bitches."

"Actually we are in the south," Remy said. "Washington is south of the Mason-Dixon line."

Storm's chin jutted out. She narrowed her eyes and looked at Scott. Then she laughed. "Get a load of this genius. He gets a perfect score on the GE-fucking-D and he proceeds to lecture me about fifth-grade geography. What's next for you, Remy? Extension classes in grifting?"

"Yep," he said. He refused to spar with Storm. Refused to put in the effort. (And that drove her crazy.) He shrugged and smiled at Scott and Jean. "My nutjob of an ex-wife majored in grifting. I'd like to think I can do better. Master's degree. Something spiffy."

Storm's head swiveled around. She dropped her water glass onto the table with a thud. "Your ex-wife?"

Oops. He'd assumed that she'd known. He'd assumed Jean had told her. And Jean must have assumed that Remy had told her. Look out, watershed moment.

"You were _married_?"

Scott snickered, forgetting himself for a moment. Forgetting the fact that Hank and the professor still had not arrived.

"It was annulled, sweetheart," he said. "So, technically no."

Storm made a fist and set it down on the table. "We were together for six months and you never told me that you were _married_? What kind of an asshole? What kind of an asshole are you?"

"On paper they called it 'irreconcilable differences,'" Remy said.

"Fuck you," Storm said.

Scott covered his eyes and lowered his head and laughed. (Summers had a real sense of humor when it came to other people's fuck-ups and embarrassing moments. About his own he wasn't so tickled.)

"Hey," Remy said, putting another cigarette between his lips and reaching in his shirt pocket for his lighter. "Well you never told me about old Forge, so I guess that makes us even."

She shook her head. Disgusted. "You son of a bitch."

He'd been called worse.

Scott's phone chirped. He had it to his ear before the first ring had finished. "Yeah," he said. Listened. Exchanged glances with Jean. "Christ. Okay. Do you need us to come over there?" He waited. "We're all here. Okay." He hung up the phone and looked at them. "Hank got pulled over by the D.C. cops. DWM. Driving While Mutant."

"Yeah, stuck in traffic," Storm whispered, loud enough so they could all hear her.

Scott said, "They're on their way now. They don't need us to come over. The professor straightened it out."

Jean sighed.

"Old Blue shouldn't be driving around in this city," Remy said. "The cops here are weird. He should know better. He should let me drive the professor around."

"He shouldn't have to know better, dipshit," Storm said. "He should be able to drive wherever the fuck he wants."

"Remy, you don't even have a driver's license," Jean pointed out. She was right. He didn't have a single piece of identification. No birth certificate, no social security card. He had a fake passport he used when traveling. He was in the system only because he was a registered mutant.

"I've never gotten a traffic violation," he said. "Not one I wasn't able to talk my way out of." He smirked. Then he decided to tell a story about the time he was pulled over in rural Louisiana. He'd been fourteen, driving down a dirt road in an unregistered van, helping the guild move some stolen merchandise. It was a good story, something to cut the tension. Something to relax everybody. He could read their body language—they needed it. As he talked, Scott sat back in his chair. Jean's shoulders untightened. Even Storm seemed to unwind. He loved this, loved being able to do this for them. As he told the story he made hand gestures. Moved his hands across the table. Played up his old lazy accent. Got a little louder. Smiled. And then, at the right moment, made Scott and Jean laugh. Storm lit another cigarette, but he could tell she was doing that to hide a smile.

Jean and Scott smiled at him. Then, suddenly—so suddenly Remy wondered if he'd said something wrong—Jean's face changed. Her smile fell away and her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open and she turned white.

She stared past him.

He stopped laughing and, as though propelled by instinct, turned his head to look behind him.

Dan was standing there. It was, Remy thought later, a watershed moment. The worst kind.

###

For the rest of his life, Remy would play this scene over and over again in his mind, wondering what he should have done, the things he could have said, the possible outcomes.

He found out later, much later, that Dan had spent every second of the last two years looking for him. He'd pleaded with local and federal law enforcement to open up another investigation into the then-imprisoned Victor Creed, but to no avail. He'd called in favors. Leaned on his family's old connections. Lobbied his senators and representatives. Used up every last ounce of energy searching, writing, pleading. Tried to draw attention to the problem of mutant abduction and disappearance, got disgusted and wrung out when no authorities or politicians or government folks seemed to give a shit about a missing mutant because he was just a missing mutant.

He'd assumed Remy was somewhere bad. He'd assumed Remy was trapped or locked up somewhere, being held against his will, experimented on, tortured—Three Mile Island all over again. At night he couldn't sleep. He worried. He imagined the worst things. He, who had never so much been hit or slapped or confined to a place for any amount of time, had to envision what might have happened to Remy. He had to stretch his mind to conceive of the worst things, the things more awful than death, the sickening things that happen before death. The things that horrify.

He lost weight. Took a leave of absence from work. Cut off contact with friends and family. Moved to Minnesota. What would you have done?

When traditional methods of searching didn't pan out, Dan hired several private investigators. Drained his life savings in six months. Sold his mother's engagement ring. Sold a family heirloom that dated back to the Louisiana Purchase. He couldn't use any of Remy's money because the feds had frozen Remy's accounts. In addition, Remy's stocks had tanked on Black Monday. In the end, Dan spent all he had. Car got repossessed. Bank foreclosed on his condo. Couldn't make his bills. Was considering bankruptcy.

Then, just weeks before, Dan finally got a hit. Remy's name showed up in public record in Westchester County, New York, for having taken the GED. Remy was out there, or someone was pretending to be him.

So Dan had tracked him down. He'd come to D.C. for the convention and to lobby some of the members of Congress about mutant civil rights. And he'd come to find Remy. He'd showed Remy's picture to every little cluster of mutant delinquents and shit-stirrers, every protester he could get to stop for five seconds. And finally he'd gotten a lead. Someone had recognized Remy, probably from the convention hall. And told him where Remy was staying.

And here Remy was. Very much alive, healthy-looking, and drug free. And sitting with a group of nice-looking folks. Not a victim of Stockholm Syndrome. Not a Patty Hearst. Just this: Remy, same as he ever was, right as rain.

When he reflects on this moment, Remy thinks of what he wishes he had done. In his mind, he gets up and goes to Dan. Runs to him. Closes the space between them. Quells Dan's questions with his mouth. Explains everything in one clear sentence. Makes Dan understand that he did this for him. For them. For all of them. So that they could have a mighty nice life when this is done.

###

Dan was shaking. His face was pale. The blackness of his pupils stood out against the whites of his eyes. His hands were at his sides, holding him, keeping him from shattering. "Remy?" he said. His voice catching. His voice shaky and uncertain.

Remy just looked.

 _Shit_ , someone whispered. Remy heard. Remy heard everything. The world didn't fall away—it stayed with him. The clank of glasses at the bar, the laughter of two patrons flirting. The shuffle of people on their feet. A friendly shout from across the room. The voice of a cocktail waitress. His friends beside him. He could feel them. He could feel them breathe and stare and wait. Everything about this moment would stay with him for the rest of his life.

The world didn't stop for this. It kept going. Fast.

He cleared his throat.

"Remy?" Dan said again. And this time his eyes welled. He turned his hand over. As if to hold something. "I thought—"

Remy was on his feet. His chair fell backwards. Suddenly he could feel every pair of eyes in the bar staring at his back. He grabbed Dan by the arm. Hard. Hard enough to leave a mark. Dan would have bruises the next day. And beneath his touch Dan felt so weak, so yielding. So unlike everyone he'd laid a hand on in the last two years. And Remy was rough with him, God, he was so rough. He didn't stop. Didn't let go. He took Dan's arm and he pushed him, pulled him, and dragged him out of the bar.

The spring wind hit him in the face. The air was dry outside, too dry for April.

Remy didn't stop. He dragged Dan past the windows, swung him around and knocked him against the brick wall. Grabbed his arms and pinned him there.

(Took a look at him then. Couldn't help it. Dan looked terrible. Thin. Broken. In the artificial street lights he could see that Dan's cheeks were hollow and his complexion was ashen. His eyes didn't dart with fear or excitement but fixed on Remy with slow, sad regret. So much sadness. And Remy could smell Dan, too, the salt of his tears and sweat. The scent of his aftershave. His body responded immediately. This was, at its basest, a sexual moment. Sexual and violent—Remy couldn't deny that. And he had never liked to mix violence with his sex, not if he could help it.)

"Remy," Dan gasped. He cried. "Did—did someone hurt you?"

Remy felt the air leave his lungs. He looked at Dan. Then released him, slowly. Turned around. Forced himself to say something. Forced himself to say the word _non_.

"Remy, please—" Dan was crying, his voice full of tears. "What the fuck. What the fuck happened. I looked—I looked for you. I thought you were dead. I thought, I thought—"

And Remy turned around again and with one swift motion took Dan and pushed him against the wall again. Hard. Pinned him there again. "Listen to me like you ain't never listened to nobody." He tightened his grip and pushed Dan against the wall again. Tried to ignore the fact that the kid cringed. He thought Remy was going to hit him. (Remy would never hit him.) "I walked away from you and I ain't comin' back. Ever."

"You're hurting me."

Remy grabbed him by the jacket and pushed him into the alley. Dan stumbled forward, propelled by his own weight. Stopped himself from falling.

When Dan turned around, Remy was still looking at him. He bent forward at the waist. Clutched his chest. "Oh God."

"Get the fuck out of here," Remy said. "I don't ever wanna see you again." He took a breath. "Go home. Go back to Louisiana. You never saw me. This didn't happen."

And that's when Dan straightened. The alleyway was dim, but Remy could see tears pooling in his eyes. But now the tears were different. Devastated. Unbelieving. His chest heaved. And then he was still. "So, so what?" he said, his voice breaking. "You—you've been okay for the past two years and you just let me think you were dead? That letter, Remy. That letter." He brought his hand to his face. "Oh my God. Oh my God." He sobbed. Then he took his hand away locked onto Remy. His mouth fell open. "How could you?" His eyes swept over Remy. "Why?"

Remy struggled. Struggled to keep himself in place. Struggled to keep from shattering, from letting that poker face slip. He felt his own breath stirring in his lungs, stomach acid at the back of his throat. Felt the hugeness of his loss in his limbs. Knew that if he didn't move he would break. Cry. Just the sight of Dan here, his physical presence, was enough to lay him open. His touch, his smell. But he couldn't let these things move him. Couldn't let this situation settle in his bones. If he did, he'd open to Dan. His own body would fall open and let Dan inside.

He knew he couldn't tell Dan he didn't love him anymore—that he had never loved him. That wouldn't work. Dan would know he was lying. He'd assume he was hiding something then, or that he was somehow under duress. Remy knew that Dan was searching his face for a sign. Trying to see if this was him. Trying to ascertain if he wasn't being used in someway—coerced, held against his will. He couldn't bring himself to believe that Remy had just left. He knew Remy too well; knew Remy loved him, loved him _so much_ , and knew he wouldn't have just walked away. But still. He had to consider the facts: Remy had never called. He had never given Dan a sign that things were okay. He'd let Dan suffer.

And Remy realized then: he'd been cruel. He hadn't meant to be, but that's what had happened. He'd thought he was protecting Dan by letting him believe that he had died; he hadn't thought about the things that people do when they're desperate. He'd underestimated Dan—his tenacity, his love for Remy. Had no idea about the scope of Dan's devotion. Remy had thought he was doing Dan a favor.

Jean knew. All those months ago when she told him that Dan was still looking for him? This is what she'd been hoping to help him avoid. Without saying so, she'd been telling him to give Dan a sign. And he hadn't understood at the time.

"What happened, Remy?" Dan said, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "What—what have—did you do something?"

And Remy went over and grabbed him. The hardest he'd grabbed him so far. Took him by the arms and shoved him away, forceful. Dan ended up on the sidewalk. On his abdomen. He struggled to his knees, crying.

"Pick up your shit," Remy said. "Pick up your shit and go back to where you came from. I ain't dead. But I ain't coming back to you." He waited. "It's over. Now you know."

Dan climbed to his feet, breathing heavily. His face bright with tears. Turned around again and looked at Remy. Raised a finger. "This isn't you."

Remy moved forward so that he was standing in front of Dan. Menacing. This time Dan didn't flinch. Remy got close. Close enough to smell Dan's fresh tears and sweat. And this, this took everything. Took something deep inside, something he'd always known was there but hadn't brought to the surface. He steeled himself. Looked Dan straight in the face. Slowed his breathing. Found his voice, a deep voice. "This was always me. Always me. You knew what I was when you hooked up with me. What I was capable of." He searched Dan's face. Felt the kid's breathing even out and slow down.

Remy fixed his eyes on Dan's. Gave him one last look. "You can't tell me," he said, "that you didn't know."

Dan's tears still stood in his eyes, but he backed away. Turned his head and looked down at himself. Straightened his jacket. Cleared his throat. Turned and walked. Walked. Down the street. Didn't look. Didn't look anymore.

###

Dan went back to Minnesota. Resumed his life. Published a book. Got tenure. Found someone new. In five years he and this new dude moved from Minnesota to D.C., and Dan took a job at George Washington University. Literature and languages.

But he never stopped thinking. He never stopped working for mutant rights. His close proximity to the Capitol allowed him to monitor issues, to go to fundraisers, and to talk to people. To network. To discover other people whose mutant friends and family members had gone missing. During his second year at GW he founded Friends of the Disappeared. A colleague started a chapter at Georgetown. And then another chapter cropped up at the University of Maryland. And then at the University of Virginia. And so on. It was a modest organization, but it had some clout among mutant elites and Washington insiders. No one—no anti-mutant politician, no chauvinistic warmonger—could criticize a human-sponsored organization that fought to reunite family members. And later, much later, Dan published a book about the state of mutant-human relations in universities. It was a scholarly book, but it did make it into mainstream bookstores for a short time.

Remy isn't sure if the professor or Hank ever came across Dan, if they read his work and knew of his organization. He never asked. Never had the chance.

Perhaps Remy had done what was best. Perhaps.

Jean Grey was right: With normal people, it's always dangerous. But for mutants, not for them.

###

This is what happened in D.C.

Remy went back into the bar. Didn't look at the table where his friends were sitting. Just went into the bathroom. Stood there. Couldn't decide whether or not to cry or throw up. It was a decision he struggled with. He moved to the sink and ran the water until it was cold. Splashed it on his face.

He was alone in the bathroom. He couldn't believe what had just happened. Couldn't even process it. The entire thing: beyond articulation.

The door creaked open. Just slightly. Jean. He could feel her. "Remy," she said. "Are you—okay?"

He covered his face with his hands. "Give me a minute."

She left.

When he came back to the table, he didn't look at any of them. And they didn't look at him. They sat there. And even though Storm and Scott hadn't known about Dan—they knew. Didn't need Jean to explain anything.

Remy sat back in his chair. "The professor?" he asked.

"He should be here by now," Scott said. His voice sounded far away.

Storm looked up. "Jean?"

Jean shot her a glance.

"Jean, that suitcase." Storm nodded to a brown and black bag. It was sitting next to the bar. "Where did it come from?"

Jean hadn't noticed. She'd been thinking about Remy. She'd been preoccupied with what he'd just been through. But when she turned to look at the suitcase, she shot to her feet and pushed all of them to theirs. "We need to get out of here," she said, but by then it was too late.

###

After the dust had cleared, after the smoke, after he could hear again, after he'd reached for Storm and found her and Jean and found her, after the fire engines had come, after he'd pushed aside splintered wood and debris and bricks—and bodies, and body parts—after he'd helped carry crying patrons to the exit, some with bloodied faces, or worse, after everything else—he stood in the alley across the street and vomited.

Fire engines were strung along the block and the cops were already sectioning off the scene. Remy had been approached by the cops but he pushed them away. Then braced his hands against the building and puked.

Jean came up to him. "Are you hurt?"

He shook his head. Whatever she'd done, whatever little magic trick she'd pulled—it had saved them. With her power she'd managed to shield them, taking the brunt of the explosion.

Unfortunately she hadn't been able to save many other people.

He wiped his mouth. Swallowed. Straightened and looked at her. "Not a scratch."

She looked him in the face and nodded.

Scott had gotten knocked in the head with debris, but he seemed okay. He was sitting on the ground against the building, holding an icepack to his head. The paramedics had come and tried to take him away, but he'd refused. "I don't know," Jean had said after carefully looking him over. "I think you should go. I'll go with you." He'd flatly told her no, no way, no hospitals. He was fine, he'd said.

Remy understood his fear of hospitals.

Storm had bounced back best of all. She'd searched the crowd and found Hank and the professor. They'd been driving up the street when the explosion had happened. Now she brought them to Scott, Jean, and Remy.

Jean stood from where she'd been kneeling with Scott and turned to face the professor. "I'm sorry," she said. "I wasn't paying as close attention as I should have been."

"By the time I knew, it was too late," the professor said, wheeling forward. "Well, thank God you're all safe."

They all circled round. Scott took the icepack from his head and looked up at the professor. "Magneto?" he said quietly.

"I don't think so," the professor said.

Remy agreed. It wasn't Magneto's style. The dude wanted Sentinel factories and the people who helped create them—not random watering holes in hotel lobbies.

"I think," Jean said, "this was aimed at us. Maybe you, professor. But I don't think it was a run-of-the-mill terrorist attack."

"Which means we've all been green lit," Remy said.

"We need to leave here," the professor said. "Quickly."

There was a safe house south of the National Mall. Hank said he'd drive them there. But then Storm's phone rang. "It's Alison," she said after hanging up. "She got a hit on some surveillance tape. Magneto's people have moved. Sounds promising."

The professor told Storm to follow up. Then Remy caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. So did Jean. They exchanged glances. "Professor," Jean said. "You need to leave."

"We got this," Remy said.

They left Scott with Hank and the professor and Storm darted off to find Alison. Remy scaled a building to find a mutant teenager. He'd been watching him. He was marked.

###

If Jean Grey didn't quite know how Remy went about getting information, she found out that night. She watched and aided him as he shook down every mutant hiding place in the city. First he'd taken the kid down to the subway and held him over the tracks in the path of an oncoming train until he told them what he knew. Then they hit up a club in Sursum Corda, real seedy place. By the time they got their answers, Jean had seen him get rough. Crack a few skulls.

She said nothing. He wondered if she was okay with these tactics—if she'd always been okay. After all, these people had tried to kill them. Had almost killed Scotty.

If she suspected that he was working through his emotions—misplacing his fucked-up guilt and sadness and self-hatred—she didn't say anything.

And by the time they got their answers, she just seemed exhausted. She'd read an awful lot of minds and experienced too many twisted emotions for one night. "The MLF," she said.

They turned to leave the club behind. "There's something I have to tell you," he said, and watched as her eyes got very wide.

###

Storm cracked the assassination plot that night. She told Remy all about it at five in the morning when no one was sleeping. Jean was watching over Scott and the professor was in the other room. Big-hair Alison and Old Blue were talking to him.

" _I_ saw," Storm said. "The professor stopped her."

He could tell Storm was very pleased with herself. This was her first big break, and a big break it was. She'd caught Remy on some surveillance video sneaking around the grounds of the Capitol. She showed Remy the still pictures. "There you are," she said. "Except I knew it wasn't you because you were with Jean. Then, look." She showed him another still. "Inside of the building it's not you anymore but Kelly's aide. But that's just so she could get past security." She looked at Remy and nodded. "Shapeshifter. She'd been planning on assassinating Kelly disguised as you, and that's why she broke into the Pentagon disguised as you and made sure to be seen outside of the building as you. We went down there. The professor managed to subdue her. I would have had no problem telling Secret Service to kill anyone who looks like you, though." She smiled. "Now Kelly's in protective custody."

"Nice work," he said, raising his arm. They tapped fists.

"She was going to frame you for this," Storm said. "Any idea why? Other than the fact that you're a dickhead?" But she was smiling.

He shrugged. He had enemies, in Mutant Town and elsewhere. "I'm an easy person to pin things on."

"What sucks is that Kelly has no idea that we're the ones who saved his pathetic, bigoted ass. He thinks the feds cracked the case. He gets to go right back to hating. Bless."

What made things worse was the terrorist attack. The death toll. Public opinion was already soured; now the government would have some license. Two distinct mutant terrorist groups were responsible for a foiled assassination attempt and a blown-up hotel restaurant. And later that morning, the MLF sent a letter to the _Washington Post_ promising swift vengeance on mutants who collaborated with government. Hank was the one who picked up the paper and saw it first. He showed it to the professor. The professor tucked the paper away.

Remy got his hands on the newspaper later when they were on their way back to the mansion. Scott was already puking by that time and in a lot of pain and on a stretcher in the back of the jet. Hank and Jean were tending to him. The professor was trying to help. Storm was flying the plane and Remy sat next to her, but he managed to sneak a glance at the front page of the _Post_. There was an article on the MLF, as well as an excerpt their letter. On the inside of the front page was a splay of photographs, the headshots of eight different members of the MLF accompanied by names and profiles. Where they were from. How old they were. Alex Blandings' mug shot was in the lower left-hand corner.

###

"When are you guys gonna step up and solve this Magneto problem, huh? You need a personal invitation? We don't have a lot of time."

This was Bishop, four days after they returned from D.C. He'd left his post in the city to steal away to Westchester County. He was convinced he was being followed. Remy had never seen him so paranoid. Before coming to the mansion he'd ditched his phone and car and other electronic equipment. Now he sat in the war room with Jean and Remy and the professor. Scott was still confined to bed. Storm was outside at Bishop's behest, monitoring things. Making sure that Bishop hadn't been followed.

"You people need to get a plan. You need to get a clue. Washington was a public relations disaster. My bosses just gave us an order to shoot first and ask questions later—much later. We've been told to draw down on any mutant we see who's up to no good, and trust me, 'no good' is loosely defined." Bishop's eyelid twitched. He wiped a line of sweat from his brow. "Magneto's people are closing ranks. He's pissed that you foiled that assassination plot, but I don't need to tell you that." He gave the professor a look.

"Where are they moving?" Remy asked.

"West," Bishop said. "And he's not stupid, either. He knew that Kelly's assassination would provoke a shitstorm of unprecedented bad will. He knew it would bring together a rainbow coalition of anti-mutant warmongers. That's exactly what he wanted. He wants to bring this war before HYDRA gets their chance." He glanced at Remy and then Jean. "The Brotherhood is going to try to eliminate the competition. They're going to try to recruit folks to their organization. Anyone they can't recruit they're going to take out. They want a monopoly, but in the meantime they're going to cause a lot of mutant-on-mutant bloodshed."

The professor said, "What are you asking us to do?"

Remy could tell the professor was losing patience. Bishop was surly, almost insulting. And very nervous. He was crawling out of his skin and blaming them for D.C.

"You know what I want, Xavier. You need to put at least one of your people on the inside." He nodded at Remy. "That guy. He's the one."

The professor touched the controls on his wheelchair. He was going to back away. That was his signal that this conversation was over. "Out of the question."

Jean stepped forward and spoke to Bishop. "You say the Brotherhood's closing ranks. Remy's an X-Man and they know it. They tried to frame him. Why would they buy him as having a big change of heart?"

"Because he's never really been one of you," Bishop said. "He's new to the team. He's a thief and a renegade. He's no Scott Summers." Bishop's eyes flickered over to Remy. "Thank God."

"I don't know, Lucas," Jean said. "Like you said, Magneto's not stupid. If Remy shows up wanting in, they're going to smell a set up. They'll kill him by the end of the first week."

"Not if you play this right," Bishop said. He turned to Remy. "You need to leave your pals. Cut all ties. Go out start working for yourself. Build a reputation as a rogue X-Man, one on the take. Word'll hit the streets that Xavier hung you out to dry. Then, once you've established yourself, you need to get yourself arrested."

"You got somethin' in mind?" Remy said.

"Something violent," Bishop said. "But not lethal."

The professor held up his hand. "Stop," he said, his voice quiet.

Remy turned to look at him. He'd never before seen the professor so angry, so calmly possessed by rage. His face was white. His eyes were bloodshot and a vein bulged from his forehead.

"You are children," the professor said in a clear, measured voice, one that dripped with disapproval. "You are all children. You have no idea. You think this is a game."

Bishop stood up. Came over and stood next to the professor. Gestured at the open file on the table and turned a page. "See this? This is the piece of legislation that scheduled to hit the floor of the Senate next week. It's a welfare bill about additional appropriations for single parents. But on page two hundred and twenty-five?" Bishop pointed at the page. "A clause about depriving mutants of due process. You think it'll pass?" He bent down to stare Xavier in the face. "You think I think this is a game? You're damn straight I do. So does everyone else. Everyone else is lining up and taking sides and placing bets. Now, the question, Charles, is whether or not you're going to pony up and play a hand." He nodded at Remy. "He can do this."

"He's not strong enough, Lucas," the professor said.

"Probably not," Bishop agreed. "But he's the only one you got."

"He's not ready," Jean said.

Bishop straightened and took her in. "Then get him ready. I know you know how." He looked at all of them. "If I'm not killed tonight, I'll be back in these parts six weeks from now." He put his hands in his pockets. "You people have a real reputation, you know. For meddling. Collaborating. For being a bunch of idealistic college kids and school teachers who like to play nanny to local law enforcement. That's the other reason why this will work. No one expects you to be very clever or painstaking or capable of treachery." He gave the professor one last look before slipping on his sunglasses. "You did a good job of giving them a liberal arts education, Charles. Now, give them something else." He saw himself out.

###

And that pretty much brings us up to speed.

Remy finished working out with Jean in the weight room. Practiced his questions and answers again. Practiced lying. Then he hit the shower. Got dressed. Decided it was time to face Scott. He hadn't had the chance to talk with him one-on-one since D.C. He walked up two flights of stairs to the faculty wing, the small section of the building where Storm and Hank and Jean and Scott lived. There was even a small kitchenette up there—which he never used. (Hank liked to use it as a makeshift chemistry lab.)

He found the room Scott shared with Jean and rapped twice. Scott said to come in.

Remy let himself into Scott's room. He'd been in their room before, but it never ceased to amaze him how sloppy it was. Neither of them was as neat and clean as Remy. Jean's hampers were always overflowing with two weeks' worth of clothes, and Scott's textbooks and student papers were always scattered about in weird places, like on top of the TV set or on the vanity. It seemed so strange to him, because Scott and Jean were both so anal retentive about everything else. They got annoyed with him for not filling out his files properly or remembering to date his material.

On this day, Scott's half of the bed was unmade. He was sitting at a desk near the window and turned his head when Remy walked in.

"Remy." He smiled. "Come on in. Take a seat."

Remy smiled too. Sadly. He walked to the bay window and sat on the ledge. It was large enough to accommodate at least one person. "How you feel?"

"Ah." Scott adjusted his glasses. "Almost normal. I'm not seeing double anymore at least. I think I'm good enough for the danger room, but Jean won't hear about it." He twirled a pen around his fingers. Remy could see that he was grading papers.

Remy waited a moment. Swallowed. "Scott, about your brother."

Scott held up his hand.

"I found out right before D.C. I should've told you."

"No," Scott said. "It's okay. I shouldn't have asked you look for him off the clock like that. It was wrong of me to put you in that position." He pushed himself back from his desk and stared out the window. "I knew. I knew he was up to no good, but I didn't know the extent of it. And now I do." He dropped his pen on the desk. "It's just something I have to live with."

"He's still your brother," Remy said.

Scott dragged his gaze from the window and took in Remy. "Do you have a brother?"

"I did. Adoptive." He cleared his throat. "Dead now."

Scott nodded slightly. Then he looked out the window again. He brought his hand to his chin. "Remy, you're my brother."

Remy exhaled very slowly and relaxed. He felt the tension fall from his body. He leaned against the alcove. "Professor still ain't hot about the idea of me goin' undercover."

"I know. But he'll come around. I haven't really gotten a chance to talk to him. He'll listen to me." Then he got quiet. "Are you scared?"

Remy laughed to himself but only to cover up the fact that he was terrified. No one had ever asked him about being scared before. He hadn't thought about it, hadn't thought about being scared in years, but he was always afraid. Fear lived in him. It was always there. He'd spent all those years with Dan terrified that Victor Creed would show up. And then he'd spent his time with the X-Men worried about Magneto or Sentinels. And now he was scared about this, scared he wouldn't be able to pull it off.

Scared of dying. Scared of letting them down. And more importantly, just plain scared of leaving. He was always leaving. He'd been made to leave everybody. "You knew him, right?" he said. "Magneto. What was he like?"

"Professor Lehnsherr was arrogant," Scott said. "A good teacher, but not at all like the professor. A little mean. More interested in his own agenda than in teaching. Holocaust survivor, though. I think that's why he doesn't care what people think of him. I guess that experience puts things into perspective."

There was another knock at the door. The professor called to them and then came in. He sighed when he saw them together, Remy on the ledge and Scott at his desk. They started to get up but the professor told them to sit back down. "There's something I have to tell you. Just you two. I'm glad you're both here." He reached around and closed the door and rolled towards them. Scott turned his chair around and Remy sat up straight to face the professor.

"William Stryker," the professor said.

Scott uncrossed his legs.

"He escaped from federal prison and fled to Brazil. He's been there for the last six weeks." The professor's eyes darted between them. "He's working on getting clemency. A pardon from both the U.S. and Canadian governments."

Scott didn't move.

Remy pressed his palms together.

No one spoke. Scott's voice, when it came, was just a whisper. "For what?"

The professor didn't blink. "Everything."

Remy folded his hands. "How can he get that?"

The professor usually hid his disgust well, but here he let himself slip. He made a fist. "That bastard. Goddamnit. He has information about anti-mutant technology, information he obtained through experimentation, of course. How else?" He sighed and shook his head. "Quite simply, Remy, he has some kind of leverage. And thanks to recent events, the government is more open to the idea of bargaining with someone who may solve their mutant problem, even if he happens to be a murderer." He paused. "I'm sorry."

Remy looked down at the floor. He heard the professor turn his chair around and roll away. He left the door open slightly. When he was gone, Remy stole a glance at Scott. The kid sat back in his chair. He wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he was devastated. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hand. Drew in a shuddering breath.

Remy and Scott had never talked about their experiences, not really. They referenced the island sometimes. Occasionally mentioned a person, someone they'd known there. Remy knew that Scott hadn't been there that long, not as long as he'd been there. But it didn't matter. A week on the island might as well have been a year. Stryker could ruin your life in an hour.

Scott needed to be alone. Remy got up from the windowsill and touched Scott's shoulder. Scott covered Remy's hand with his.

Outside in the cool spring weather, Remy went for a walk, hoping to get lost. Deep in the forest he threw cards at saplings and split them in half. And then he sat on a rock and stayed there for a long time.

###

He lay on the gurney. Jean and the professor stood over him. They were talking.

They had just been poking around in his mind. He could still feel them there, the fingerprints of their thoughts.

"He's not ready," the professor said. "What's worse is that I don't think he'll ever be ready."

"I disagree, Charles," Jean said quietly. "I think he's ready. Is it possible that you just don't want him to be ready?"

"Jean," the professor said. "Please." He bent over Remy. Stroked his head. "What do you think, Remy? This is your choice. Are you willing to die for this cause?"

He wasn't. He was willing to die for them.

Remy said nothing, but the professor must have read his thoughts. He looked at Jean and nodded. It was good enough.

###

When Bishop came again, they were ready.

Remy sat in the war room with Scott, Jean, and the professor.

"Okay," Bishop said. "So your password is 'Desperado.' Anyone comes to you and says that? You know they're one of us and they're probably going to pull you out."

Scott stood next to the professor. He uncrossed his arms. "That's not good enough, Lucas. I want some kind of guarantee for him. I want it in writing, signed and sealed and locked up somewhere nice that he's working for the feds."

Bishop rolled his eyes and climbed to his feet. "Oh, Jesus Christ, Scott. You know I can't do that. I've cleared this with my boss. But that's the best I can do."

"Then this won't happen." Scott shook his head. The look on his face was serious and stark, no trace of a smirk. The glasses hid his eyes, but Remy could sense the intensity of his gaze. "I know how you people work. Everything will be just dandy until your boss gets fired and you get transferred to some Alaskan outpost. Then he gets swept up in the paddy wagon with the rest of Magneto's henchmen and ends up doing twenty-five to life in Leavenworth."

Jean sat at the table, her hands folded in front of her.

Remy had to hand it to Scott. The kid was young, but he was smart. He knew what was up.

The professor sat still in his chair. He still was not keen on this idea. At all.

"No contract?" Scott said. "No LeBeau."

Bishop sighed and covered his mouth with his hand. He scratched his head. "I'll take it to the higher-ups. See what they can do." He glared at Scott. "But it's risky. Our agency is probably compromised. You put this kind of thing in writing? It will get back to Lehnsherr eventually. Maybe HYDRA, and probably S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Then keep it close. But he's not going under without some kind of guarantee." He leaned on the table and looked down at Remy. "And I want you to get him full immunity."

"For what?"

"For all the stuff in that FBI file. The racketeering, the extortion, the insider trading. Anything that could ever be used against him. You need to wipe the slate clean for him."

Bishop rolled his eyes again. Dealing with Scott Summers was never an easy task, never a trip to the zoo. "That'll take a little time."

"We've got some of that," Jean said.

Scott said, "You need to get him immunity for the Morlock thing too."

Bishop turned back and stared at Scott. "No one would ever prosecute him for that. He didn't break any laws."

"Conspiracy? Covering up a crime?"

Bishop shook his head. "No. I mean, there's no law against harming Morlocks."

Scott put his hands on his hips. "But there could be. Someday. And I doubt a statute of limitations will apply."

Bishop paced. Glanced between Remy and Scott and the professor and Jean. "Fine. But," he said, coming over to look at Remy, "I can't get you out of the assault you're going to commit. You will do time for that. You will always have a criminal record."

"I guess that's the point," Remy said. He was going to have to try to make contact with the Brotherhood from inside prison. That was the only way to convince the main players that he was no longer an X-Man. (And still, it might not work.)

The professor had been silent throughout this exchange. Now he bent forward. "I hope you understand what it is you're doing. All of you. If this goes wrong, we all bear responsibility." He looked at Jean and Scott. "Do you think you can handle that knowledge?"

Scott came forward. He put his hand on Remy's shoulder. "It won't go wrong." He squeezed Remy's shoulder and looked him in the face. Remy could imagine his eyes. "We're going to take care of you, Remy."

###

Years and years later, Remy sat on the levee, staring at the water, watching the boats. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The memorial service had been a week before, but he was still raw. Jean's death brought his emotions to the surface, the emotions he'd spent ten years compartmentalizing in another part of his brain.

She'd taught him that mental trick. How to compartmentalize emotions. How to repress things. She'd taught him too well.

He hadn't returned to Vegas after Jean's death at Alkali Lake. He'd come home to New Orleans. He knew he was here to stay. For a while, at least. He was done running. He wanted to be found. By whomever. No one had attempted to take him out in three years—and Magneto was now a fugitive—but he still half expected some out-of-towner to roll up one of these days and put a bullet through the back of his head. He'd betrayed a lot of people. Put quite a few cats away. He was shocked by Liberty Island—but more shocked by how much the Brotherhood had shrunk in size. He'd done that.

He'd done other things, too.

Here he was on the levee, coming back to himself. For years he'd been no one. With Dan he'd been someone, with the X-Men he'd been someone, and with the Brotherhood he'd been someone different, but someone all the same. Then, afterwards? He'd just gone through the motions. He'd met himself every morning and felt the pull of the ground beneath his feet. He'd pushed himself through life. Did a few half-hearted stints in rehab. Won a bunch of money and spent it on ridiculous bullshit—cars and entertainment, mostly. Had a hot young Vietnamese girlfriend at one point. Screwed enough people to make his life a porn movie. Met up with Logan once or twice in Vegas and again in New Orleans and reminisced about stupid shit that neither of them really remembered or cared about.

And now Jean was dead and he couldn't help but feel that. He groaned and looked up at the sky. Pushed his hat over his face. Everything ached.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pushed his hat back and took it out. The number wasn't one he recognized, but it had a New York area code. It couldn't have been Logan. Storm maybe? He answered it. It was Scott.

(Yes, Scott called Remy after Jean died. Their conversation at the memorial service wasn't their last. Of course not. Storm, however, never knew they talked.)

Remy pulled his hat off and sat up. "Scott? Scott."

"Remy," Scott began. His voice was so quiet.

"How did you get my number?" Remy asked. (This was a completely inappropriate thing to ask, but it was something Remy automatically asked everyone. His years on the run had left him paranoid.)

Scott paused. "Logan."

Remy smiled, but the smile was to hide his tears of relief—relief because Scott had called. He was okay. They were both going to be okay. "Logan gave you my number?"

"No, of course not. He left his phone in the laundry room. I got your number and then I threw his phone outside. It's still sitting in some bush. He'll probably get one of the kids to find it."

Remy laughed.

"Listen," Scott said. "About what I said last week. It was wrong. I didn't mean it."

Remy stopped laughing and leaned back on one elbow. Picked at the grass. "Same here. What I said to you was bullshit." He cleared his throat. It felt sort of good to clear this up, but bizarre too. He and Scott hadn't ever talked about anything. Not Three Mile Island, not about Remy's years undercover. That was probably their problem.

"No, you were right. She was my girl. It was my team."

"No, no, Scott."

"And you. That's on me too."

Remy's hand worked through the grass a little more slowly. "Scott." He could feel Scott's tears. Maybe because he was crying them. He suspected that Jean had left them linked somehow.

"I wonder though?" Scott said, his voice catching. "What it would have been like? If, if you'd been there."

Remy sat up. He closed his eyes. He had of course wondered the same thing. Over and fucking over again.

But he knew Scott wasn't blaming him. He was blaming himself.

"We needed an external power source," Scott said. "That was all."

He didn't remind Scott that he could only manipulate energy—not create it. But yes, maybe there would have been a way.

"I think she was tired of the life," Scott said. "She'd been having bad dreams. I think she wanted to focus more on teaching. You know, Storm will always do this. Dyed in the wool. But Jean, maybe she was different."

Remy looked down at the ground. His hat was in front of him. He ran his fingers alongside the rim. "I know."

"It's so weird," Scott said. "I never knew how much she was there until she wasn't anymore."

He meant in his mind. Remy knew, because he was experiencing the same thing. They all were.

"The weirdest thing," Scott said, "is that I don't blame Stryker. Not the way I should."

Remy cleared his throat quietly. His eyes burned. His eyelashes were damp. Right away his stomach hurt. (He never told Scott that he once had the chance to take out Stryker.)

"Stryker," Scott said, sighing. "He was the reason for all of this. For my whole life. If he hadn't taken me, then the professor wouldn't have found me. And then I never would have met her. Never would have fallen in love." He paused. "Maybe she'd still be alive today. Stryker gave her to me, and he took her back."

Remy drew in his breath. Touched his hand to his forehead. "How's Logan?" he said, and immediately felt like a dick for changing the subject.

"Jesus Christ," Scott said. He just started to laugh. "God, I hate him so much. He's so socially inadequate. Where did you meet that guy?"

Remy laughed. His whole body shook. It was good, in a way, to shake off those tears. "That's a long, boring story," Remy said. "Boring and unremarkable. I won't bother you with it." He thought of Logan, of that first fight. It always made him laugh. Dan had also always thought Logan was so funny, so artless and defensive at the same time. He was like a scorpion on a sinking log, Dan said. You wanted to save him but you knew he'd sting.

Remy reached into his jacket and took out a flask. Then he reached into his other pocket and took out a bottle of Xanax. He quietly opened the bottle and tapped five into his hand and then shoveled them into his mouth. Washed them down with whiskey.

"Whatever, LeBeau. Well, Logan's idea of subbing for my Spanish class is to take them to Taco Bell, right? Oh God." He paused. "He had this little crush on Jean. Who didn't. The senior guys were more subtle than he was. But I think Logan actually thought he had a shot." He started to laugh again. "It would have pissed me off if it wasn't so absurd."

And they were back to talking about Jean.

Scott wasn't okay. Remy knew this. Remy knew this because _he_ wasn't okay. But still, it was fun to pretend.


	27. Chapter 27

For Storm, there's never a good time to tell Logan.

There's always a crisis. Another one of the adjuncts quits. One of the kids gets sick, and then another—and they worry about Rogue. Her immune system has been wiped out by treatments; she's vulnerable. A minor illness could kill her. And then, if that's not enough to keep them preoccupied, Bobby and Kitty disappear for a few days and turn up married. What timing.

"I can't believe you still haven't told him," Remy whispers to her one evening on the stairs. She's on the landing and he's a few steps below her, holding onto the railing. It's after dinner; kids are milling around. Logan is supervising a proficiency test cram session in the common room. (He doesn't like to get roped into tutoring academic subjects. Surprisingly, however, he's more able with academic matters than he gives himself credit for. Or not so surprisingly, she thinks. He's a bright guy. He can glance at a textbook and figure out most things. And if he doesn't know something, he knows how to look up the answer. Despite his best efforts to dodge the heavy-hitting stuff, he still gets kids coming up to him with questions about Euclidian geometry and how to use the passive voice in Spanish. The kids have figured out what he doesn't want to admit—that he knows things. Things other than basketball, karate, and conversational Japanese.)

And Remy is also bright. But at that moment she thinks he's being very dumb. She wants to reach down and throttle him. "Come on, _chere_ ," he says. "You're killin' me. How long you gonna make me keep this secret?"

"Remy," she says, taking a deep breath. "Whom I choose to tell and when is none of your business."

He chuckles. Then sticks out his bottom lip. "But look at Logan. Poor guy." He shakes his head. "So damn clueless. My heart breaks. He's like a hamster caught in a heating duct. Remember the time the hamster got caught in the radiator?"

She does. It was more than ten years ago. Jean used her telekinesis to extract it. It was still breathing, but barely. The kids had been very upset.

"That's what Logan reminds me of." He laughs. He looks like he's remembering something—fondly. "Poor thing." She doesn't know if he's talking about Logan or the hamster.

(Logan's not clueless. He knows something's up. And he's definitely nothing like a hamster. But what is Remy trying to say—that she's the heating duct? Or is that the school? Or is this just the most retarded analogy he's ever come up with?)

Remy steps up another stair and draws closer to her. He's still below her, but now he's whispering in her ear. "What are you afraid of? He'll take care of you." He touches her arm. "We'll all take care of you. Me, Bobby, Kitty. You don't have to worry about nothing."

She lets herself relax for a moment. How nice it would be to believe him, to believe that they're going to be some little utopian mutant commune, no outside interference, no worries about what's to come. Never mind the fact that Kitty and Bobby are now a married couple—albeit a young married couple who need to finish school—and they'll probably want to start their own family, not raise hers.

And then there's Logan. Who clearly doesn't want children. (They had taken precautions against pregnancy—of course.) He's good with the students, but she gets the sense that he's relieved they're not his. She always finds him sneaking a beer at the end of a long day, or ducking outside in between classes to have a cigar. He doesn't talk about it, but he's frazzled. The kids have him fried. She can't imagine how he's going to react, how shocked—and possibly scared—he'll be at this prospect. She's shocked and scared herself. Terrified by the implications of this whole deal, about issues of safety and family.

Then, once she gets past all that, she's terrified by the implications of being a parent. She doesn't know how to be a mother, not really. She knows the younger kids see her as alternately strict and nurturing—like a mom—but she feels as though she doesn't really know anything—it's all an act. She's an imposter. She doesn't remember her own mother, and her childhood was such a mess. Jean, she thinks, was more of a mother to the kids. Jean would have been a good mom.

Remy keeps his hand on her arm and continues to look her in the eyes. She doesn't get the sense that he's trying to hypnotize her, not exactly. Not yet. He's trying to just be there. He's really trying. "Please don't worry. Not about this. I hate to see you worry anymore, Storm. At this point in your life? After everything? You should just be able to relax. Enjoy what you have. You've earned it."

"Remy," she says quickly. She wants to say something important, but she's not sure what. Instead she says, "Next week. I promise. But this week isn't a good time." And she knows then: she's just making excuses. She could tell Logan any time she wants to. Really. She probably should have told him weeks ago back when she got the news, back when she went to a local doctor to confirm her suspicions. That was the only check-up she's had. She should be going for check-ups much more frequently, but she needs to find the right doctor. Hank hasn't called her back.

Once she tells Logan, things will change. There will be responsibility involved. She doesn't doubt that he'll step up, but she worries that he'll feel trapped. She won't be able to tell whether or not he's with her out of desire or obligation. He'll _have_ to love her then.

Remy locks onto her. "There's never a good time," he says. "There won't be." He squeezes her arm and goes back down the stairs where he runs into Rogue, who is padding back from the rec room to go to bed. "Oh _ma chere_ ," he says when he sees her, reaching out and enfolding her in an embrace. Storm watches as he strokes her auburn hair. He acts as though he hasn't seen her in days even though they've just eaten dinner together.

Storm tenses. Then she forces herself to relax. Shakes her head as if to throw off the vision of them together. She and Remy are going to have to have a little talk about Rogue, about this weird friendship. Rogue is so sick, and Remy is so fucked up. This isn't going to end well.

But they're not going to talk now. Logan shows up. He comes from down the hall and appears in front of the stairs. "Danger room," he says.

"Alright," Remy says, sounding pleased. He pats Rogue on the back and turns to walk to the elevator. "I'll be in there waiting for you, Logan. Can't wait to see what you've cooked up." As he walks away he sings "Peaceful Easy Feeling."

Rogue smiles and slips away. Logan tells her to get a good rest.

Then he turns his head to look at Storm. She's still on the landing. He has a look on his face that is both affectionate and wily. He always gives her that look. It's like he's got a secret—but she doesn't know how that's possible because she's the one who's got the big secret. He's not hiding anything. He's not capable of hiding anything. "You're coming, right?"

"Hmm, Logan," she says and acts like it's a tough decision. (She's getting good at bluffing.) "I don't know. This grant won't write itself."

These days she always has some kind of excuse. She's tired or not feeling well or too busy or just wants to work through a simulation on her own. This is what she tells him.

"Leave the grant," he says. "You've got to work out sometime."

"Just get Warren to take my place."

He bounds up the stairs and stops where Remy had stood. "Come on," he says, very quiet. He takes her hand but doesn't pull her. He's just trying to urge her on.

"Warren can fly."

"But it's not the same. He can't control wind patterns." Logan smiles. "No one scares Gumbo like you, Storm. You're the only one."

She tries not to laugh. "What about you? You always beat him."

"He lets me. He thinks it's funny. There's no challenge there." He climbs the last two stairs so that he's on the landing next to her. He gets very close and puts his other hand on the nape of her neck. Gives her a wicked little smile. "Not like you. You're such a challenge," he whispers. "You know you want to do this. We both want to. We both want it. Come on." He puts his mouth right next to her ear. She can feel the hot moisture of his breath. "Spar with me."

"Logan," she says, trying to pull away. She's also trying not to laugh.

He squeezes her hand tighter and pulls her toward him. Then he kisses her quickly on the lips. Then he kisses her again, this time harder and longer. He slips his tongue past her teeth.

She forces herself to pull away from him. (She'd stay there and keep going if there wasn't a decent chance that a whole gaggle of kids could come around the corner. She suspects that he likes the idea that they could be discovered. In all honesty, she loves it too—it's a rush, it turns her on—but she always manages to come to her senses before things go too far.)

His hand is still on the back of her neck. She reaches around and grabs it. Holds it in hers. "I really can't." Tries to ignore the look of disappointment on his face. "When things get a little lighter, okay?" In six months, right.

He touches her cheek. "I miss you." He lets go of her hand.

The statement makes her sad. She turns away and runs a hand through her hair. She hears him bound back down the stairs. She goes the rest of the way up the stairs to her bedroom. She needs to lie down. Right now? She could faint. He has no idea how exhausted she is. No one does.

###

So that night she stands over the sink in her bathroom, flossing. He's leaning against the doorframe. They're talking.

"I don't get him," Logan says.

She looks at him in the mirror. "What do you mean?"

Logan stands with his hands in his pockets. His shirt is unbuttoned and he smells good and sweaty. "He always lets me win. These days he doesn't even put up a fight."

She pauses, mid floss. "Well Logan, you beat just about everybody. And Remy isn't getting any younger." She gives him a glance. Neither is Logan, but he's not getting older, either. He's not moving in either direction.

"Yeah, but—" Logan looks down and shakes his head as if he's trying to process too many thoughts. "It's weird. It's like he doesn't care. The harder we fight, the more amused he seems to get. It's like he's a masochist."

Storm laughs. She can't help it.

Logan's glance sweeps over her. He's not laughing. "I mean it, Storm. He's strange." He looks away and breathes through his nose. "You know, he's never leveled with me. All these years. Pisses me off."

She takes the floss from her mouth. "What do you mean?"

He turns so that his back his resting against the frame. He looks up. Then shakes his head. He doesn't want to go into it. But then he snaps back to himself and turns to look at her. "Same with you. You've never leveled with me, either."

She draws in her breath. She can't help it. She freezes. She watches as his eyes flicker over her. She's not showing yet—not quite—but she knows she will soon. And then she won't be able to hide this anymore. He knows every inch of her body, same as she knows his.

"You've held out. You've held off on telling me the details about why he left the team."

"Oh," she says. She tries not to appear too relieved and turns to look at him. "Honestly? I don't know that much." She leans against the sink with one hand. "Scott and Jean were skilled at keeping the goods from the rest of us. Hank and I? It's like we were always in the dark."

Logan gives her a long look. "But he didn't just up and leave the team."

"Oh, that he did," she says. "I remember the day, too." She turns back and looks in the mirror again and bites her lower lip. "Well, nothing's ever simple. You asked Scott, you'd get one story. Jean, you'd get another. Remy? Remy wouldn't give you anything. Not that he was around to tell. He just disappeared."

"Why?"

She thinks for a moment but keeps peering into the mirror. But she isn't looking at herself but at some spot above her head. "When he came back from his mission? He wasn't the same. But neither were we. He'd been gone for three years. We were all different. I was changed too. It had been a rough three years for all of us. He was out doing what he had to do, and the rest of us were fighting this thing on the front lines." She pauses, remembering. It hadn't been easy. She's given Logan some of the facts—that she was shot, locked up, et cetera—but she doesn't like to dwell.

He reaches over and touches her elbow.

The tenderness of the gesture brings her back to the moment. She goes forward. "Remy," she continues, "Remy really went under. Deep. When he got back?" She turns again to look at Logan. "He didn't let Jean in anymore. They'd always been so close. Before, she used to read his emotions constantly." Storm smiles to herself. "I never let Jean read me like that. Early on in our friendship—when we were still teenagers—I told her to cut it out, and she seemed to respect that. But Remy didn't mind. Actually?" She glances at Logan. "I think he liked being scrutinized. It made him feel wanted." She recognizes now that he was relieved: relieved that someone knew all about him and still decided to accept him. He liked being Jean's psychic project, liked fulfilling that need for her.

Logan crosses his arms and sniffs.

"Anyway," she says, "I think Jean was devastated when Remy shut her out. He'd developed some pretty intense methods of blocking her. And—I think he scared her."

"Really," Logan says.

"And that upset Scott. And everyone was just upset. God, and poor Remy." She looks away. "He was inscrutable. When he and Jean stopped getting along, he seemed to stop giving a shit. He got sloppy. And resentful. It didn't help that he came back addicted to drugs—the professor helped him kick. But that wasn't the half of it. He started challenging Scott and being very passive aggressive. And then he started making larger gestures toward hanging this up and leaving it all behind."

"So why was that a problem?" Logan says. "So what if he wanted to move on?"

"Well, exactly," Storm says, getting another string of floss and wrapping it around her fingers. "People change. It was ridiculous to think things could go back to the way they were. I mean, Hank went into activism. Alison went to Hollywood. And Remy—well, he'd worked so hard for us that it didn't surprise me that he wanted to go into early retirement. It just seemed a logical next step. He was burned out. I think he wanted to go back to living among normal people—he'd always lived among normal people before he met us. But—Scott."

"Scott took it personally."

Storm peers into Logan's eyes. "He loved Remy. Trusted him implicitly. And Remy kind of shattered that trust. Scott was so upset. And he was offended by Remy's choice of occupation afterwards—professional gambler. He felt that Remy wanted to distance himself from mutant causes as much as possible. Like he was ashamed of us somehow. I don't think that was the case." She turns back to the mirror. "In the end, I also think that Jean learned a valuable lesson. You know, all her life she had sort of leaned on her telepathy to make connections with people. After Remy? I think she learned the consequences of poking around, or of depending on other people to meet some emotional longing. She bounced back." She narrows her eyes. "For a while, anyway."

"Yeah."

"And Scott was very young at the time. I think that's why the whole thing pissed him off so much. If he'd been a little older he might have been mature enough to deal with it differently. He would have understood where Remy was coming from—just as you and I do now." She pokes the inside of her cheek with her tongue. "Scott was very mature in some ways but stunted in others. I think the professor was right to hang a lot of responsibility on him—he was the best of us—but at times I think the professor lost sight of how young Scott really was."

Logan nods and studies her. "What about you?"

She drops her hands and looks at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well," he says, "it must have been hard on you. Watching that. They were your friends."

He lays that on her in short staccato syllables. Sometimes she can't believe him. He's so discerning. He arranged this entire conversation to get her to talk about herself—not about Remy. He wants to know how she saw the world back then. She almost wishes she'd known him when she was younger.

She looks at him and inhales. This is his way of drawing her out. Neither of them likes to talk about feelings. They're the same in that way—both dutiful little soldiers. "It was—" She stops. She was going to say, "It was what it was." Instead she says, "It was devastating." And it was. Remy's departure probably makes her top three most demoralizing life moments, up there with Alcatraz and Alkali Lake.

He reaches out to touch her arm again.

"But," she says, forcing herself to brighten, "that's over. And now he's here. He actually seems much better these days. He's bounced back. I thought the hurricane would be the last straw. I'm surprised." She thinks—and this isn't the first time she's had this thought—that the deaths of Scott and Jean and the professor seemed to liberate Remy. It's a weird idea, but it feels right. She knows he's sad, same as she is, but there's some relief there too. No one's scrutinizing him. He isn't being judged for what he did. (She does not judge him.) And Scott and Jean and the professor all died around the same time. There's comfort in that. They're not suffering anymore.

Logan senses that she wants to move on from this conversation. "So." A smile plays on his lips. "Do you want me to shower before or after we have sex?"

"Um," she says, picking up her floss again. "After's fine." She doesn't mind a little sweat or body odor, never has. "But make sure to shower some time this week."

He takes off his shirt and throws it at her. "Jesus, Storm. That joke about my lack of hygiene is getting old."

She drops his shirt on the counter and tries to finish flossing.

"Come on," he says, sidling up to her so that his body is pressed against hers. "You can floss afterwards. While I shower."

"I'm not putting sex ahead of my gums. I'm not getting gingivitis."

"I like girls with gingivitis," he says.

She turns to face him. She's really trying. Trying not to laugh. "Hands down, that's the worst thing you've ever said to me."

He smiles and walks back into the bedroom. "I do."

"How many girls with gingivitis have you slept with?"

"I can't remember," he says over his shoulder.

She hears him shed the rest of his clothes and climb onto the bed. He's waiting for her now. He probably thinks she's putting in her diaphragm. She closes the door over and pinches the bridge of her nose. This wouldn't be a terrible time to tell him.

When she opens the door, he's not on the bed. Instead he's waiting behind the door. He reaches out and grabs her, pulls her toward him. (This is his favorite thing—to surprise her.) He kisses her while he reaches up under her shirt and touches her breasts. She helps him take her shirt off. Then she slips out of her shorts. She's not going to struggle with him tonight. Sometimes they resist each other a little bit, or tease each other—it's a game they like to play—but tonight she just wants straightforward sex. They also like to start out somewhere else—against the wall, in a chair, in the shower—and finish in the bed. Tonight she just guides him to the bed.

He seems to sense that something's different about her, that something's on her mind. Maybe he thinks that talking about Remy and Scott and Jean unsettled her. He's gentle. Slower than usual. Quieter. (Not that they ever have the luxury of being loud.) This is why he's the best she's ever had. He's so damn attentive. All that raw sensuality, all those heightened abilities. He's sensitive to her moods and knows where and how she likes to be touched. Knows how to make her come right away or how to delay her from coming. Knows when to be aggressive and when to relax.

Understand: she'll never get over him. She's old enough now to know this. Whatever happens in the future, wherever he goes or she goes, she'll remember this. He'll always be her best. And she's the best she's ever been—for him.

He does the things she likes. She's ready for him almost immediately, and he knows it, but he takes his time tonight. Seems to savor her.

She always gets the impression that he's watching her—always, and in everything. She likes the feeling, loves being the object of someone's lust and affection and careful concentration, but it also makes her sad. He's memorizing her. He knows she won't always be like this. She won't always be here with him. This thing they're having will be over, and this whole thing—this whole thing that equals a life for her—is just a moment for him. Eventually she will grow old. Or, more likely, she'll go out into the field and get herself killed—her luck as a lifelong X-Man is certain to run out. Or some other bad thing will happen. In any case, they won't always be together. It's the one thing she knows for sure.

He'll have to remember her for the both of them.

And at moments like this—when she thinks about all of that—she feels very bad about keeping the baby. He's bound to her now, no matter what. He can't leave. And she can't imagine what her pregnancy will do to him, what a mindfuck it will be. He's blessed and cursed with eternal youth, and now he's going to have a child who may or may not share that special predicament. Either outcome will be heartbreaking—for him, for her, for the kid. She should have done what was best for all of them and put it out of the picture. He never would have had to know.

But then there's this: he enters her at an angle and then pulls her up so that she's sitting with him. Maneuvers his body so that he's under her. He kisses her neck and runs his hands along her spine, under her breasts. Touches her abdomen. He's so gentle tonight, gentler than usual. She loves him; she's lovesick. He's something all right. This love thing is something she never thought she'd have. She'd thought it was too late. And now she wants all of him. Including this baby.

He recognizes that she's going to come. He puts his hand between them. He times his movements with hers and manages to come with her. Then he kisses her mouth, one arm around her, the other hand on her breast. She lets go of him and they lie down together. He drapes his arm across her and kisses her temple. Their breathing slows. After a minute he starts to get up.

"No," she whispers, holding onto him.

"I have to take a shower, remember?"

"Leave it," she says, her eyes closed.

He presses his face next to hers. "I love you. But you know I can't sleep here." He hugs her once more before pulling away.

He's so afraid of hurting her. She wishes he would just trust himself. He's not going to hurt her. Or, if he is, it's not going to be in the way he thinks.

She hears him go into her bathroom and turn on the shower. She tries to stay awake for him, tries so that she might convince him to stay, but she falls asleep immediately. She is, after all, exhausted.

###

The next day is not a good day. Definitely not the right time.

A bunch of the teenagers snuck out in the middle of the night. (Probably when she and Logan were having sex—he was too wrapped up in their lovemaking to hear any doors or windows or feet hitting the walkway outside.) Logan caught them stumbling back at five in the morning. They were trashed. One threw up in the hallway. Another waited to get to the bathroom but missed the toilet.

Storm watches him work through it. He's pissed. He doesn't even know where to begin. He's beside himself. The kids have pulled stunts like this before—once Jones hotwired one of the cars and went joyriding—but this offense seems especially egregious. He feels that the kids are taking advantage of them. They know they can get away with things these days; the telepaths are dead, and Storm and Logan are very distracted. They're both overworked and trying their damnedest just to keep the school afloat and the teachers paid, and they don't have time for the minutia of childrearing. They've had to deal with a small influx of students; more runaways have fled to the mansion—kids whose parents have tried to force them to take the cure. And then they've had to deal with Rogue, who becomes violently ill after her treatments. The kids sensed an opening. They went for it.

"They picked a fucking great time," Logan whispers to her in the hallway. They're both standing right outside of the study. Her middle-school class is inside the study getting ready, waiting for her. It's close to eight o'clock and the rest of the kids are moving around the hallway, shuffling their homework papers and books from one hand to the other, and trying to shake off their sleepiness.

Logan's wide awake. He's been up since five dealing with this. He was kind enough to let her sleep through it, but now he needs to vent. "What the hell is wrong with them, Storm? What the hell?"

She tries to shush him. "Where are they now?"

"Sleeping it off. You should deal with them when they wake up. You don't want me to deal with them." He runs a hand through his hair. "I mean, Jesus Christ. What's their problem?"

"Logan," she says, trying to comfort him and calm him down. She doesn't want him to have a meltdown. Not right here.

"We give them everything," he whispers. "They've got it too good. They're a bunch of spoiled assholes. I'd like to see them try their luck in foster care, see how it works out when their asses hit the curb."

She holds up her hand. "You don't mean that. You need to cool off."

"Don't _tell_ me what to do," he says, his voice rising. "Or what I mean. You can be so condescending, Storm. You weren't the one cleaning up puke at five-thirty in the goddamn morning." He raises a finger at her. "The problem is you. You've made it too easy for them."

She's having difficulty tracing the shape of his resentment. He's not really angry with her or the kids. He's annoyed at the situation. Maybe he's angry that he's here right now, with her, dealing with drunken, rebellious teenagers and not off doing what he wants to do. Whatever that is.

She senses he's angry about Rogue, too. And that's tough because there's nowhere to lay that blame. Worthington Labs? The FDA? Himself. He blames himself for letting her go that day, for letting her line up and take a cure that he believes was probably cooked up by the government. He of all people knows what the government is capable of; he now suspects that the antidote was a new way of subduing and perhaps exterminating mutants. He just can't let it go. Can't believe how wrong and naïve he was to let her walk out of the mansion.

He looks away.

"What do you want me to do, Logan?" she asks. She looks down and steadies herself against the wall. It's too early for this—she's so tired. She no longer has morning sickness, just a lot of fatigue. And too many emotions.

Before he can say anything, Remy lopes down the stairs. He's got his usual piecemeal clothes on—hippy-ish jeans, v-neck sweater over a shirt, frayed scarf hanging around his neck, fingerless gloves, bandana around his head. He looks ridiculous. He looks like a male daycare worker. She remembers how he was in the old days—how fastidious he was about his clothes, how he used to polish his boots before going to bed each night. She doesn't know if he's trying a new style or if he just doesn't give a shit.

When Remy sees them together he smiles. He always smiles. "Well hello, _amis_. Good mornin'."

"I don't want to hear from you either, Gumbo," Logan snaps. "I don't even want to see your face."

Remy stops smiling. He looks between Storm and Logan and his face clouds with worry. "What's going on?"

"Don't act like you don't know," Logan whispers.

Logan probably thinks that Remy gave the kids his blessing. That he saw them leaving and told them to go out and tie one on for him.

Remy looks alarmed for a second, his eyes widening. Then he studies Logan and furrows his brow. Gone is his amusement and worry. "Uh, I don't." Then he casts a sideways glance at Storm. Swallows.

"Save it. None of this crap started until you showed up," Logan says.

"Logan," she whispers. She can feel her tangled up emotions rising in her chest.

Remy's expression darkens. Now he's disgusted. He puts his hands in his pockets. "You know, Logan?" he says, not bothering to whisper. "I really don't know what the hell this is about. What I do know is that I'm tired of your bullshit mood swings. Tired of watching people accommodate you. When are you gonna grow up, huh? How are you supposed to tell the kids to act their age when you're such a goddamn child?"

Storm hears Logan suck in his breath. But before he has a chance to say anything, Remy turns his head to look at her. His expression softens; his eyes grow worried again. "Storm," he says, his voice tender and concerned. "Are you alright?" He holds out his hand. "Jesus. Come on, hon, come with me."

She realizes that she's crying. She doesn't know when the tears started—they just did. She hates this, hates losing control. Logan turns to look at her. He hadn't noticed she was crying either—hadn't detected the swift bottoming-out of her mood. And now he's startled. "Oh," he says.

She's so embarrassed. She shakes her head and wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I have to teach," she whispers. She pulls away from them and dries her eyes and wills herself to breathe normally. When she feels ready, she turns the doorknob to the study and walks inside.

She finds eleven pairs of eyes peering over their shoulders at her. They're quiet. They've been listening—of course they've been listening. (She would have listened if she'd been in their place.) But they're good. When they see her, they turn around and pretend they didn't hear anything or see the tears in her eyes. They're used to these little flare-ups. They've seen worse. Growing up mutant means growing up fast, and they've been exposed to a lot of drama both at the Institute and in their own lives. Some have been around long enough to remember how Scott unraveled after Jean's death, how he became irrational and dark. Others remember the day that the professor died. And nearly all of them have seen their teachers crumple at one point—get angry or sad for seemingly no reason. All of them probably remember that incident with Remy on the lawn from last autumn, and all of them are now watching Rogue die.

They've seen and heard a lot. This little tiff isn't even a footnote.

The mansion is big, but it's not that big. The students have their dramas, and the teachers have theirs. And living together—all of them under one roof—makes things tense. There's no alone time, no privacy. Everyone knows the details of everyone else's lives, and the students have come to accept their teachers as human beings with messy and complicated feelings. She remembers what that was like. She and Scott and Jean lived through the brutal falling out between Professor Lehnsherr and Professor Xavier.

But no one here is having a falling out.

She reminds herself of this as she sits down at her desk and takes out her book. She's calm. She remembers that she's following a ready-made curriculum. She's teaching them about the Protestant Reformation. She doesn't know what she can say or do to make this subject interesting or relevant for twelve- and thirteen-year-olds—but she has to try. They get out their books. They're quiet. They listen as she talks and solemnly answer the questions she poses.

When she's done teaching, she goes to her office, which is connected by a small doorway. She's not surprised to find Logan inside on the loveseat right next to her desk, looking out the window.

"Hey," he says, turning around. "About before? I'm sorry. I was totally out of line, Storm."

She looks down at the desk and notices that he's brought her a doughnut and a cup of tea—herbal tea. (She's told him that she's sworn off caffeine because it was interrupting her sleep cycle. He remembered.) "It's okay," she says quietly, coming around to sit at her desk.

"It's not, though," he says. He sighs. "I don't want to be that guy."

"What's 'that guy'?" She's always wondered what people mean by that expression.

"I don't know. Just that guy."

She suspects that Remy tore him a new one for making her cry. Not that he had to—Logan would have felt bad anyway. But the doughnut? That's Remy's touch.

She's slept with Remy, and she's now sleeping with Logan. She's living under the same roof with two guys who know what she's like in bed, who know what turns her on and what upsets her. This should be awkward—but it's not. They're friends. There's no jealousy or weirdness. Normal people probably wouldn't understand this familiarity, this whole situation—but mutants need other mutants. They can't be picky; they have to make do with who's around.

Logan looks up at her. "Are you—are you okay? I mean, _really_?"

"Yes," she says, her voice barely audible. "As good as I'll ever be, Logan." She says this more firmly, reaching for his hand and looking him in the eyes. "It's okay. I'm okay."

He gets up from the loveseat and comes around so that he's standing behind her. He traces her shoulder blade with the back of his knuckle, so lightly. She closes her eyes. "Okay," he whispers. He bends down and kisses her on the top of her head. "If you want to talk, I'm here for you. You know that, right?"

She nods.

He leaves.

When he's gone, she reaches into her drawer and pulls out her telephone and address book and finds Hank's number at the UN. She picks up the phone and dials. She gets his assistant and leaves a message—again. She gives her name—spells it for the guy twice. She suspects that Hank either isn't getting his messages, or he's not getting back to her because he guesses that she wants to grill him about the side effects of the cure and the possibility that the FDA and the pharmaceutical companies have been lying. And he's probably not prepared to take that on right now.

She can't keep this up.

###

Things go from bad to worse.

Rogue picks up a virus from one of the students. Her immune system, torn to shreds by the chemo, can't fight it off. It's what they've feared.

But this is after she and Remy have their little come-to-Jesus about Rogue. It goes badly. She feels terrible.

She came across the two of them one afternoon in the common room. Remy and Rogue. They weren't _doing_ anything—God no—but he was sitting back on the sofa, legs propped up on the coffee table, and she was lying across him, her head on his chest. He was stroking her hair with one hand.

Storm walked by. Took it in. Then, stopped. Turned back around. Looked at them again. Rogue's hair was fanned out on Remy's shoulder. Storm sighed. "Remy," she said calmly, "could I see you for a minute? In my office?"

She felt like a headmistress when she said those words—the wrong kind of headmistress. The headmistress she swore she'd never be. When he got to her office, she was already sitting behind her desk. She told him to close the door.

"What's up?" he said.

"Remy," she began. She gestured to the chair. This scene was already all wrong. She was treating him like a student. She wanted to go back and do it all again, but it was too late.

He shuffled into the chair.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Ma'am?"

She picked up a pen and tapped it on her desk. "With Rogue."

"Um, I don't know what you mean."

"Come on," she said. "Let's not play games here. We're adults. I assume I can ask you a question and get a straight-up answer."

He glared at her. His eyes didn't move from her face. "I don't think I like your question."

"Remy," she said. "I'm trying to run a school. You're living here, she's living here. I think I have a right to know if something's going on."

His mouth dropped open. He angled his face so that he was looking at her from the side. "Storm, please don't. I don't like what you're implying. She's a child."

"Exactly," Storm said. "A child. A very sick child. The last thing she needs is the introduction of a middle-aged suitor at this point in her life. If she were well or a little older, then it would be different. But the situation is not a good one."

He was still looking at her with this blend of contempt and disgust. He was offended. Very offended. "Storm," he said, breathing once through his nose. "What do you think I am?"

She stared back at him. And then she wondered what she was trying to accomplish here. This whole thing was a bad idea. He wasn't doing anything wrong—really, he wasn't. But still, she knows about his weakness for pretty girls, his sexual appetites, his lack of restraint. "I'm just telling you to back off a little, that's all."

"You think I don't know she's a kid? I know she's a kid, and I know what's going on with her," he said, his words speeding up. "I'm not that kind of person. Whatever you think of me—Jesus. Whatever you think of me? It ain't true. But now I know."

"Remy—"

He got up, pushing the chair back. "Now I know how you see me. What you've always thought."

She lost patience and tossed her pen down. "Yeah, and so what. You haven't exactly defied my expectations in the last twelve years. Now you want a whole bunch of respect without doing the legwork. Well, tough shit, Remy. Grow up. When people see you lying on the sofa all cozy with a college girl and doing fuck all with the rest of your life, they're going to think things, regardless of your intentions—whatever those intentions might be. And you know this, too. You're not stupid. Quit acting so goddamn surprised and sanctimonious. You know I had good reason to call you in here."

"Your problem," he said, pulling the chair back in place with a thud," is that you've always been so fucking uptight. Why does everything have to be a struggle, huh?" He took a step back. "I mean, look at you. Thirty-eight years old and scared to death. Of everything. Unable to enjoy the smallest hint of happiness. You never even leave the mansion because you're so goddamn frightened of ordinary people and ordinary living." He looked at her shook his head, his eyes skimming over her, angry. "You wanna know something? Something about me? What I'm about? I saw people, Storm. I saw people folks younger than you get washed away. Their whole lives ahead of them. There one minute and dead the next. Do you have any idea what a body looks like when it's been in sewer water for three days? What it _smells_ like?"

She had no answer.

"And then there's you," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You have your life—you have everything, and you don't appreciate it." He raised his voice again. "What do you want? All of our friends are dead, and who knows how much time we got left, and who knows how much time the girl has left, you just want to sit here and cast goddamn aspersions and piss me off about stupid shit that nobody cares about. Well." He straightened his sweater. "I've never before met anyone as miserable as you. And now you want to make everyone else miserable like you. Me, the kids, Logan. You need to do a better job with your people, Storm."

"Good advice," she said. "Especially from you. I'll keep that in mind."

"Please. For your sake. Not mine."

She set her hand on the desk. "This conversation is over."

"Oh," he said. "Let me guess where you learned that little bit of conflict resolution. Yeah, Xavier lives on." He turned and walked out of her office, leaving the door wide open. She heard him walk back down the hallway, but she sensed that he wasn't going back to see Rogue. Seconds later, she heard the thump of his feet on the staircase. He was going upstairs.

That. That has to rank up there with one of the worst fights they've ever had. They'd stared each other down and probed each other's sensitive spots—his wayward relationship skills, her tendency to hunch up and see every victory as a potential disaster. Remy had articulated all the things that she fears about herself: that she'll push Logan away, that she really is broken somehow. Missing something. And she knew that she'd implied or said all of the things he fears and hates about himself—that he's a waste, a whore, and that he can't relate to people if he's not trying to have sex with them.

In the aftermath of the fight they don't talk to each other much other than to say what they're doing or where they're going. He starts bluffing his way around the mansion again—same as he did all those years before. He becomes inaccessible and blank. And she's hurt and angry. And remorseful. She shouldn't have insinuated anything, but she wonders if she really deserved what he said. Remy seems sweet, but he's not as dovish as people make him out to be. When he's pushed, he'll push back. Sometimes he bites.

And the hurricane. He's never talked about that before. It's something he usually can't bring himself to talk about. Not in English, anyway. Something has changed.

Their mutual animosity and unease last for a few days. Then he seems to relax. She sees him with Rogue in the rec room, smiling, but he's not touching her. When he catches Storm looking at him, he averts his gaze, but he doesn't seem resentful anymore.

Logan notices. He notices everything. "What's going on with you two?" he asks one night when they're in bed together.

"We had a fight."

"About?"

She thinks about lying. But she's done too much of that. "The last eighteen years, I guess."

He decides to make light of it. He seems to sense that she needs someone to make light of it. "Sounds rough. Well, I hope you and the Cajun make up before Mardi Gras." He runs a hand through her hair. He thinks it's nothing.

Before they have a chance to forgive each other—or to decide what to forgive and what to put aside—Rogue gets sick. She comes down with a fever and collapses one evening on her way back from the bathroom. Remy finds her. He takes out his cell phone and calls 911 before he calls for Logan.

Storm doesn't know what's happening until the ambulance shows up. She's been upstairs, trying to figure out how cold air is leaking in from the outside. Then there are sirens, sirens that don't just go away. She rushes down to the front entrance to find two paramedics lifting Rogue onto a stretcher, Remy and Logan side by side in the doorway. She notices right away that the children aren't around—Warren must have taken them upstairs or to some other far corner of the mansion.

Logan turns to look at her when she comes down the stairs. He's terrified.

Rogue is gasping, panicking. One of the paramedics is fitting an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose and encouraging her to breathe. That's when Remy steps forward and puts one hand on hers and another on her abdomen. "Rogue," he says, looking down at her, down into her eyes. "Look at me. You need to breathe. Listen. Logan's here. He's going with you. You'll be okay, I promise."

She calms down.

It's snowing outside.

Remy looks up at them. "Storm," he says, "get Logan's coat."

She moves quickly, darting back to the closet near the staircase. She pulls Logan's coat off the hanger—not the old ratty one but the thick one she got him for Christmas—and rushes back to drape it over his shoulders. He slips his arms into it. He doesn't look at her. Remy nudges him forward. He steps outside with the stretcher and Rogue reaches out to hold onto his arm.

Storm is holding onto Remy's arm. She hadn't realized that until now. He glances down at her. "She's just scared," he says. "Come on. Let's go get the car."

###

That's Remy. Always so calm in a moment of crisis. Not that she and Logan don't hold it together—they do—but Remy seems to take emergencies with unmitigated stride.

She and Remy drive there together and sit together in the hospital waiting room. They don't look at each other, but they talk sometimes. Logan has been trying to see the doctors, but they won't let him go back. He's pacing near the fogged up windows.

"You know," Storm says, "they met in a bar fight."

Remy exhales. "He told me. So did she."

"He once accidentally stabbed her in the chest."

"They told me that, too."

She has leaned back in her chair, her head against the wall, her legs splayed out in front her. She almost never sits like this. She's exhausted.

Remy gets up and goes to the vending machine. He brings her back a bag of chips. She opens them and eats half of them before giving the bag back to him. "I don't need these," he says, but he eats a few anyway. He crumples up the bag and looks over at her. "Hey, _chere_. You look about half."

She nods and closes her eyes. She's come to terms with the fact that Rogue is probably going to die—she's had to—but she just didn't think it would be this soon. The moment feels so grimy and ordinary. Boring. Some guy is coughing in the corner. People have tracked mud and snow and sand and salt all through the hospital's corridors; the place is filthy and smells like the dinginess of late winter. There are several TVs on in the waiting room—one is turned to MSNBC and another is turned to some awful sitcom.

Back at the mansion it was chicken patty night. Remy hates the chicken patties, says they're a synthetic corruption of meat. But everyone else gets so excited. She looks back at Remy and feels so damn bad. Why the hell did she lay into him about Rogue? She knows now that he was just trying to provide her with simplest and most human comfort in the world: physical contact. Rogue went through most of her teenage years without touching anybody. She's desperate for closeness, and he was just trying to meet that need for her. Not sex. And even if he had designs for something a little less innocent—so what? There are worse things in the world than a middle-aged man hooking up with a college student. He wouldn't have treated Rogue badly. Not at this point in his life. She knows this.

There are worse things. Worse things than Remy LeBeau.

She leans forward. She's got that _feeling_ again, the feeling of something touching her. Her life seems to stand still for that. Always. It's happened several times already and it scares her—it means that this is real. It's happening. It's already happened.

Remy's leg is twitching. He looks over at her and grows still. "What?" he says, sounding alarmed. "What is it?"

"Nothing." She draws in her breath and sits back in the chair, arm draped over her abdomen. She leans her head toward him. Whispers. "It's one of us."

He leans his head against his hand. Studies her. His eyes are glassy. "You can tell?"

She nods slowly. Closes her eyes. "It's too early for it to be moving around so much." She opens her eyes and stares at Logan from across the room. His arms are crossed. He's facing the window. He's not listening to anybody or anything.

Remy puts an arm around her and tries to urge her to her feet. "Come on," he says. "Let's get you home. To bed. I'll come back and get him later."

"No," she says, her voice steady. She's still looking at Logan. She's staying put.

###

Rogue defies everyone's expectations—the doctors', Logan's, Storm's. She recovers. She fights her way back. For the time being, anyway. Still, she stays in the hospital. That week they go to visit her. Storm and Remy take turns, going every other day. Logan goes every day.

Remy works on converting the third-floor single back to a suitable bedroom for her, for when she gets to come home. It's far from the mansion's liveliness—too far—but they want her quarantined and away from the other kids and their winter illnesses. She's going to be lonely, but it's the only way. Remy will have to keep her company.

Logan spends a few hours at the hospital every day—he's no longer able to keep on top of the food orders and inventory and expense reports. And Remy, though he means well, doesn't fill Logan's shoes. One day Storm sends him to pick up an order from the depot and he forgets several crates of milk and a pricey package of frozen fish. It's not his fault—he just doesn't know to check things over the way Logan does.

Storm's emotions remain off-kilter. She tries her best to control things—she has the _natural climate_ to think of, after all—but she finds herself slipping. She cries in her office when no one's around. One day she pauses in the garage to have a good jag when Warren surprises her. He's so quiet—she hadn't noticed that he came through the garage's back door with some firewood. When he sees her he drops a log. "What's wrong?" he asks.

Well, take your pick, she thinks. What isn't wrong? But his face is so earnest. She's always liked him. The other teammates don't think he has much personality, but about that they're mistaken. Warren has a quiet, intense wit; you have to lean in to hear his jokes, but they're always funny. He's brilliant.

"Nothing," she tells him, forcing herself to smile.

He stands there, the wood in his arms. "Okay. But if you need me for anything, Storm, I'm here." He clears his throat. "I can take on more work if you want me to." He knows: she and Logan are sliding behind in their work, struggling to keep up.

She smiles again, this time genuinely. "I want to thank you," she says, taking a deep breath, drying her eyes with a tissue. (She walks around these days with a pack of tissues.) "For everything that you've done around here. Really. I don't know what we'd do without you. You're so—special to us." She reaches out and touches his upper arm.

He seems pleased but embarrassed. She understands that. She's never so forward with people and would be mortified if someone were so forward with her. And Warren is young.

He never talks much about himself, but he's told her a few things. His dad invented the cure; she knows that he tried to strap Warren down to inject him. She wonders about Warren's motivations for working so hard at the mansion—if it's out of some need to make reparations, or if he just longs for the company of other mutants after having been forced to pass as normal for so long. When she looks at him now she can't help but see him as a scared, sad boy. How could his father have tried to do such a thing? Still. His parents are still his parents. They're probably worrying about him, wondering when he'll come home.

Storm knows that her job performance is slipping. She can't concentrate. Her work piles up. Her students' papers go ungraded. She longs for the professor. He would have known just how to comfort her, how to see her through this. And Jean. Jean would have been so emotionally supportive—and excited too. She would have bolstered. She would have teased too, joked about the fact that Storm and Logan fucked up with birth control. And Scott? Oh, he would have been horrified at first. _Logan_. But he would have gotten over it. Jean would have forced him to get over it.

She wonders if they would have been jealous. Just a little jealous.

Some mornings she wakes up, unbelieving. She can't accept that she's the only one left. She can't believe that they left her here. The thought cripples and stuns. It comes with the first daylight, like an early morning dream. She can't fathom that these things—all these things—are really taking place without them. But they are. All of this is true.

###

One afternoon that week Storm remembers to check her calendar. Shit. The Bolton fundraiser. It's that night. She and Logan are signed up to go and they're bringing Bobby and Kitty. It's important. Mike Bolton is state senator running for Congress, and his support for the Institute has been unwavering. He's a trustee. He's also a mutant—has some telekinetic abilities he rarely uses. They have to go to this.

She's thinking about this, staring off into space, when Logan walks into her office. "That guy's coming to fix the roof. What do you want me to do about the shingles in the garage? Do you want me to move them to the shed?"

She looks at him and blinks. Did he just ask about shingles? She finds her voice. "Okay."

He narrows his eyes. Studies her. Then he takes a deep breath and just stands there. "How was class?"

"Fine."

"What are you doing?"

That's a great question. "I'm about to make a phone call," she says, but she doesn't pick up the phone.

He continues to stand there. Then he walks around the desk and sits on it, right beside her. He looks like he wants to ask. But instead he reaches out and touches her hair. "How 'bout we hit the danger room tonight. Just you and me. Together. Alone."

Danger room sex. It's one of their favorite things. They've had sex in some other strange places. Her office. Xavier's old study (yes, on his desk). One time they did it behind the stables. It was cold and dark and they're sure no one was watching. They kept most of their clothes on and finished quickly. Then there was the night they drove together to buy a new washer-dryer set, and they only had to look at each other once to know. They stopped the car and pulled into a nearly-deserted parking lot and climbed into the backseat. It was cramped and teenagerish but they could be as noisy as they wanted.

She tries not to think about this now. She wills herself to focus.

"We can't," she says. This time she has a good excuse. "The Bolton fundraiser, remember? Kitty and Bobby are driving up here this evening and coming with us."

He gets up from the desk. "What?"

"You know. I told you about this. He's on the board of trustees. Anyway, it'll do us good to get out."

"I'm not going."

She uncrosses her legs and swivels the chair around. She stares at him. "You already promised you would go."

"I don't have anything to wear to a thing like that."

"Yes you do," she says, leaning forward. He has one suit. She forced him to buy it for Scott's funeral. Actually, _she_ bought it for him, had it tailored. (He wouldn't have known what to buy.) Scott's funeral was the last one. They had it at a local Catholic church because Scott had been a Catholic, lapsed. She insisted that Logan go. He needed the closure.

He puts his hands on his hips. "What about Rogue? What if the hospital calls?"

"Keep your cell phone on. In the city we'll be just as close to the hospital as we are up here."

He's run through his catalogue of excuses. "Goddamnit. You know I'm no good at these things."

"You'll be fine."

"Christ," he says, pulling at one side of his shirt. "I _hate_ these people."

She decides to ignore his outburst. "Hank's going to be there."

He looks back at her. "Fur Ball? Good. Maybe I can ask him why the hell he hasn't returned any of my phone calls." He stalks out of the office, leaving the door open. He always does that when he's pissed.

###

That evening Kitty sits in her room while she gets herself ready. This is the second time they've talked since she and Bobby absconded together. The first time was on the phone. Now Kitty sits on the bed while Storm gets ready in the bathroom, putting on the last of her makeup and jewelry.

Kitty and Bobby have seemed a little sheepish but otherwise unashamed. Kitty showed them her ring—it's just a simple gold band. Bobby has no ring. She says that they're going to get real rings once they get jobs.

Storm just isn't in the mood to feel offended anymore. What's done is done. She and Logan aren't their parents.

"He's getting an internship this summer," Kitty tells her from the bedroom. "The UN. He worked the whole thing out with Dr. McCoy."

Storm pauses, looking in the mirror. She shakes her head slightly. Hank has lined up an internship for Bobby but he hasn't bothered to call her back. She seethes. Then she looks over her shoulder at Kitty. "Have you met his parents yet?"

"Yeah. They're pissed." Kitty shrugs. She obviously doesn't care. She's in love. "His mom's a little intense."

"I've heard," Storm says. She finishes in the bathroom, switches off the light, and comes into the bedroom. Kitty's still on the bed in her black dress. She's taken her shoes off. Her feet dangle—she's so tiny. "Kitty, you guys were in a big hurry to get married. Is there—is there something going on? You're not pregnant, are you?"

Kitty pauses for a second but her expression doesn't change. "No, of course not."

"Okay. But you're using birth control, right? You have to be careful. Mutant hormones are—different."

Kitty nods and looks down. Storm can't tell if she's embarrassed or if she just doesn't want to talk about this. "You sound like my mother." She raises her eyes again. "We're going to finish school. Trust me. Our parents have blown, like, three hundred grand between them to pay for it. They'd murder us if we dropped out." She smiles.

Storm tries to hide her relief. She wants to tell Kitty about her own private turmoil—wants to just tell anybody who isn't Remy LeBeau—but she thinks better of it. Kitty doesn't keep secrets very well. She tells Bobby everything, and sometimes Jubilee. And Bobby probably tells Peter.

Now the smile drops from Kitty's face. She clears her throat. "What do the doctors say? About Rogue?"

Storm moves to her jewelry box on the dresser to get a pair of earrings. She exhales through her nose. "They're calling it 'treatable,'" she says. Then she turns to glance at Kitty. "It's stage four."

Kitty nods and looks down. "Bobby and I talk about her all the time. We wish we could do something."

Storm thinks they might start by visiting Rogue more often—but she decides not to say this. Actually, maybe it's better that they don't. Bobby is Rogue's ex-boyfriend; Kitty is the girl who bagged him. It might be upsetting for Rogue to see these two people, her high school pals, together and starting a life. It might serve to remind her only of what she's missing.

Logan opens the door and walks into the room. "Are we ready?" He's impatient.

Kitty smiles broadly when she sees him. "Wow, Logan. Looking sexy."

He lets Kitty get away with this.

He actually does look really good. He cleans up well. His suit fits him nicely. But he's nervous. He adjusts his tie and pulls at his sleeves. "I'm driving," he tells them.

They go downstairs, meet Bobby in the hallway, and put on their coats. Remy materializes in the entrance of the rec room. "You ladies look beautiful," he drawls. He looks at Logan and laughs. "You look like a Friday turd at a Sunday dinner."

"I'll remember that," Logan says. He's in too foul a mood to think of a better comeback.

"Why aren't you going?" Kitty says.

"Please, _petite_." Remy rolls his eyes. "All that rah-rah mutant pride bullshit. It's not my gig."

"Yeah, well," Logan says. "Maybe your gig tonight should be emptying the trash cans in the basement and making sure no one eats anything toxic."

"You got it."

Logan shuffles into his good coat. He holds the car keys in one hand. "Are we leaving or what?"

###

Bobby and Kitty are excited to be going out, even if it's just to a boring fundraiser. Still, they seem to enjoy the opportunity to dress up. Storm wonders if this is the prom they've never had. Or the wedding reception they did without. They joke and laugh from the backseat. They ask Logan questions, which he answers grudgingly until they get lost.

Storm zones out. Again. She can't stay focused. When they pull up to the hall half an hour late, she realizes she forgot to write the check. She pulls out her checkbook.

"What are you doing?" Logan asks.

"The check. I forgot."

Logan takes the keys out of the ignition. He looks at her. "Maybe it would have been good to remember when we were lost in Chinatown for twenty minutes."

"Maybe it would have been good if you'd gotten a GPS when I told you to get one." She shoves her checkbook back into her purse. She'll have to write it later. She wonders, for the tenth time that week, what the hell is wrong with Logan.

He gets out of the car and closes the door. He doesn't slam it, not really. But he closes it more angrily than he would normally. And he knows she'll pick up on it too.

Bobby and Kitty are in the backseat, silent. They move to exit the car. They don't fight, apparently. Yeah. Storm wonders how long that will last.

They're late so they have to walk past everyone to find their seats at a table. At least they've been placed in the back. Logan sits down and takes his name card and stuffs it in his shirt pocket. Storm tries to acquaint herself with the people beside her, no help from Logan. He just sits there, sitting back in his chair. Dinner is served. They eat. He seems to relax. He leans closer to her, puts his arm around the back of her chair. She allows herself to enjoy this moment. She knows he likes being with her, likes the fact that she's the one on his arm. And she likes being with him. He's odd and out-of-place here, but they're a striking couple. They attract subtle stares from mutants and humans alike.

He bends forward to talk into her ear and rubs his thumb along the back of her neck. "That friend of yours is over there," he says, nodding to a table on the other side of the room. "That Emma Frost person."

Emma hasn't returned her phone calls. "What's she talking about?"

He listens, quiet for a minute. "Nothing important. I don't know. A soccer coach. I think."

Then he gets up. Says he's going to the bar.

While he's away, Emma slowly works the crowd, making her way over to Storm's table. "Ororo," she says. She's smiling, but it's forced. The skin around her eyes doesn't move. Storm wonders if it's botox or just plain contempt. No, she's never liked Emma. What Remy says is true: the woman is a crook. But she's also done a lot for mutant rights. She funnels money to mutant adoption agencies and is spearheading an effort to get government compensation for the mutants who underwent experimentation in the 1970s. She's helped some people. Storm knows that her clever ways of manipulating the system are manifestations of a desire to beat humans at their own game. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to return your calls," she says. "But I did give your number to David Epstein. Have you heard from him?"

She smiles back and tells Emma she hasn't.

"I'll get you his phone number," Emma says, "before I leave tonight." She smiles again. "You look well."

Storm introduces Emma to Kitty and Bobby. They all smile and shake hands. She asks them what they do and they explain about their colleges. She pretends to be impressed and asks them what they're majoring in.

Logan saunters back to the table with a glass of wine and a glass of whiskey. The wine is for her. He comes from behind Emma.

"Emma," Storm says, "I'd like to introduce you to my partner, Logan. He's the school's assistant director." (That's bullshit, but it's how she always introduces Logan.) "Logan," she says, "Emma Frost is the CEO of Frost International."

Emma straightens and turns around. She stops smiling, goes still. Leans back.

Logan puts Storm's glass of wine down on the table and holds out his hand.

Six seconds pass.

Storm can't read Emma's face because she's turned away at an angle. Emma finally returns his handshake—delicately. "Nice to meet you." She clears her throat and gathers herself and looks down at Storm. "I'll be in touch, Ororo." And then she walks away—almost runs.

Logan watches as she retreats. The look on his face is something between annoyance and distress. He glances down at Storm. Then he moves to pull his chair out and sit down.

"What the hell was that about?" she asks.

"I was gonna ask you," he says, his tone defensive. "That's the second fucking time. I told you." He glances over his shoulder and then hunches down.

Bobby looks away and grabs Kitty's hand. "Let's go to the bar," he says. They both get up.

"Have you met her before?"

"Except that day at the mansion? Not that I recall. But that doesn't mean much." He's frustrated. He sits back and adjusts his tie. "Hell."

She puts her hand on his arm. He's raw about this—raw about the things he thinks he can't remember. She wishes she could help. Wishes she could reassure him in someway, let him know that Emma Frost isn't a person to get twisted about. "She's strange." She shrugs. "She probably just can't believe you're the assistant director of Xavier's Institute."

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. "Thanks."

"I mean—I mean she was probably expecting someone more like Scott."

He's not convinced. But he seems to calm down. He'll leave it for later. He nudges the glass of wine in her direction. "Drink up. Open bar. I'm driving."

The wine is the good kind—deep and red and expensive. She holds it and then sets it down. Hopes he won't notice that she's not drinking.

He notices. "The open bar is the only benefit to being here as far as I can see. What's wrong?"

"Later," she says. "Right now I need to go talk to someone." Hank. He's gotten up from his chair. He's across the room from them.

###

The rest of the evening doesn't go well. She finally manages to talk to Hank, but not until Logan is through with him. She hadn't realized that Logan had been trying to call Hank as well—about Rogue's illness. Hank had not returned Logan's calls either. "When, Hank," Logan says. "When are you going to get someone to open an investigation into the cure thing, huh? People are dying while you and your Washington cronies play games in other countries. I'm sick of it."

Storm wants to die. There are other people around. Hank has been talking with a prominent lobbyist and the provost of NYU. Yusuf Islam's manager walks past and looks up. But Logan doesn't give a shit.

"I haven't received any calls," Hank said. He doesn't seem too alarmed by Logan's behavior. He probably gets this all the time. "I can assure you, Logan, that the FDA is working as hard as it can."

"But what are you doing?"

Storm tries to delicately nudge her way between Logan and Hank. "Logan," she says quietly.

Hank decides to drop his politician's face. He extracts himself from the lobbyist and the provost and walks them to a semi-private corner. He puts his hands in his pockets. "Logan," he begins. "There's no proof that the cure causes cancer. At least none that we can find."

"That's bullshit," Logan says.

"I'm sorry," he says calmly. He touches Logan's arm. "I'm not convinced either. I can assure you that I am looking into it, but the pharmaceutical companies are notoriously difficult to crack. We don't even know how they're continuing to manufacture a cure when they no longer have a source. We think they must have replicated the DNA. Which is bad news."

"What about the FDA?" Logan says. "Can't they do something?"

"It's difficult," Hanks says, "to know for whom the FDA is working these days. Now, we're trying to locate people who have taken the cure to track its long-term effectiveness and its side-effects to see how different people respond and why, but the pharmaceutical companies can't provide that information. It's protected. And people are not coming forward unless they've gotten sick." He backs up. "I promise you that I'll get back to you as soon as I know something." He looks at her. "Ororo. Nice to see you."

He walks away. Logan lets him go.

She can't look at Logan. She's furious. She covers her eyes. Then turns and leaves him in the corner.

She catches up with Hank before he chats up the CEO of a major nonprofit. He turns around and looks at her warmly, seems to understand that Logan's temper is just par for the course. "Ororo. You look good." He smiles.

"Thanks," she says. "Look, I'm sorry about that."

"Quite alright. I suspect any of us would react the same way."

She nods. "It's very personal to him. But look. I've been trying to call you too. I—I have a question. A favor to ask of you. Completely unrelated."

He looks at her and some hint of concern crosses his face. Then she realizes it: she's emotional. _Again_. He can see the tears standing in her eyes. "What is it?" he says. "You've tried calling me?"

"I left a message with your assistant."

He rolls his eyes, curses quietly. "I need to fire him." He looks at her and brings his hand up as if to shield her.

"Everything's fine. But—is there a time I can call you?"

He's already taking out his business card and a pen. He leans over at the nearest table and scribbles something. "This is my cell phone number," he says, handing it to her. "Call me tomorrow. Or when you can. Ororo, I'm always available to talk to you. About anything."

She goes back to find Logan. It's time to leave.

###

Maybe it happened the first time. Maybe the second. She's just not sure. It was Thanksgiving. They'd been drinking. Everything was going so well—the kids were home from college and even Rogue had come back. Rogue was okay then. Or she seemed okay. Sad though. So cautious. She hung back. Storm wonders if that was her fault, if she made things too uncomfortable for Rogue around the mansion. She was so angry at that girl after she took the cure; Rogue had been so hasty and unthinking. Now Storm feels bad. All that—that cure stuff—none of it was important. Or not in the way she felt it was at the time.

And Remy. He'd been displaced just months earlier, but he seemed to have come through it. For the first time she thought he might be okay. He'd come back, yes. Finally. She'd always harbored that secret hope, always wanted to see him home again, right with Scott and Jean and the professor. But the years went by and it never happened. And then it was too late. And then—the hurricane. He came home. And the mansion felt fuller, better—even when he was being a shit. He told stories. He talked about Jean and Scott and the professor as if they'd just slipped off to the balcony.

He acted as though he'd never been gone.

Logan followed her up the steps, his hand on her back, breath on her neck. He seemed to urge her along that night like he never had before. And when they got to her room he closed the door and pressed her against the wall, his mouth on her neck. They pulled away briefly only to undress, and to undress only as much as they needed to. Then he came back to her, held her against the wall and entered her. She didn't have the wherewithal—or the desire—to tell him to pull out. They'd almost always used something, diaphragm or condom. She'd been on the pill but she didn't like it, didn't like the way it made her feel. But that night was strange. They were happy and reckless. They'd let their guard down—let themselves think that things would always be this okay. And then it was over.

But there was a second time. He came back into her bedroom that morning before it was light and pulled her from sleep as though he were pulling her from underwater. She was groggy but she wasn't drunk anymore—or if she was drunk, she was drunk on him. He grooved his tongue into her. She moaned and he rose to meet her, quieted her with his mouth, entered her. She wrapped her legs around him and came right away. And that was it, wasn't it? All of it—this inevitable march toward life and then death—started there. She hadn't realized it at the time.

After the fundraiser, they drive home in silence. Kitty and Bobby say nothing from the backseat. When they pull into the garage, they both quickly exit the car and go into the mansion. They'll drive back to Connecticut tomorrow morning.

As for Logan? Well, Storm can't even look at him. She gets out of the car. Goes inside. Knows he's behind her and doesn't care. When he tries to follow her into her bedroom, she finally turns around to face him. "I don't want you to come in. I think you should back to your own room tonight."

She's not the type of woman to withhold sex because she's angry (she enjoys it too much), but tonight she's livid. And beyond that, she's upset. About everything. 

He glances down at her. "I need my toothbrush."

She opens the door wide to let him in. He heads straight for the bathroom. She waits outside of the bathroom door. When he comes out he stands there, facing her. Then he moves around and sits on the edge of the bed.

She puts her hands on her hips and looks down at the carpet.

"I don't want to fight," he says.

"I don't care," she says. She heads for the bathroom. She runs the water so that she can wash her face.

He appears in the doorway and leans against the frame. He's undone his tie; it hangs around his neck. "I'm not sorry."

She dries her face and looks up. "That's fine. That's just great, Logan. Next time, when you want to alienate the other half of New York's mutant elite, just let me know in advance. I'll shut the school down early and beat everyone else to the punch."

"Don't exaggerate," he says.

She puts her hand on the counter and turns to look at him. "I think you need to leave my room now. You have no idea how angry I am. You know what happens when I get like this. Don't—push me."

He doesn't leave. He continues to lean against the frame. He looks down. Then he speaks. "I'm not sorry. I'd do it again. She's dying. And—damn." He pulls his tie out from under his collar and moves away to toss it on the bed.

Storm feels the air leave her body. She steps into the bedroom. He sits on the bed.

"She's dying," he says again, matter-of-fact. "It happens. I know. People die. Sometimes young people die. Sometimes people die when they've still got so much more to offer. It's just the way it goes." He clears his throat. "I can accept all that, Storm. But I can't fucking accept the fact that nobody cares." He catches her eyes. "I'm out of patience with myself. This whole thing is on me. And I can accept that, too. I—it's not the first time I've been the cause of someone's pain. I'll live with it. I'll always remember. But—I can't process the fact it's all for nothing. That nothing good will come of her death."

He rises again and takes off his jacket. Undoes another button on his shirt. Then he steps over to sit down in the chair. "I'll go. I just need to sit here for a minute." He covers his mouth with his hand.

She exhales but doesn't move.

He takes his hand away and glances at her. "I'm sorry. Not about what I did to Hank. But about you. I'm always sorry about you. You deserve better."

She can feel tears spring to her eyes. "Logan," she whispers. She can tell he's about to get up and go to his own room. Four minutes ago that would have seemed like a good plan. But not now. She walks over to the chair, takes off her shoes. Climbs into his lap, lets one of her legs trail between his. He wraps his arms around her and sighs, presses his face against hers. And they stay like that for a while. She sets her hand on his chest. Then it turns sexual. They start kissing. Her hand is in his hair, her other hand undoing his belt. He reaches behind her to unzip her dress, pulling it down so that he can cover her breast with his mouth. She moves against him. Then she draws back, stands up so that she can slip out of her dress and pull off her tights. He works quickly to take off his shirt. He doesn't bother to take off his pants. Then he reaches forward to open the drawer of the nightstand. A condom. He's getting a condom. She halts, feels the bottom drop out of her life. He really doesn't want children. But neither did she. 

Now would be a good time to tell him—to tell him that he doesn't need that anymore. But she doesn't say anything. She goes back to him. Straddles him. They make love right there, in the chair. They don't bother to move to the bed. She braces herself against his shoulders and he wraps his arms around her. Then she pulls him closer, presses her face against his, and comes. And she doesn't even realize that she's crying until he pushes her back and looks at her. He searches her face. His hands are wrapped around her arms. He holds her tightly.

"Storm," he gasps. "Storm, what is it?"

Crying during sex. That's new too. She just shakes her head quickly and wraps her arms around his neck again. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"For what?" he whispers in her ear. He strokes her hair and tightens his arms around her. "What's going on with you?" He runs his hands over her back. "You're so strange," he says, his tone quiet and musing.

He's strange too. The tone in his voice is something she hasn't heard before.

She relaxes against him. Closes her eyes. She knows she should tell him now but she just wants this moment. This one last time together. "Stay with me tonight," she says. "I just want you near me."

He pushes her back again. Looks at her. "Whatever the hell it is, you can tell me."

"Tomorrow," she says, trying to calm her breathing. "Come to my office after lunch. We'll talk then."

His eyes search her again. He nods, very slightly. "Okay." He looks worried. He's trying to peer into her.

They curl up on the bed together, his arm draped over her. She knows he's looking at her. He knows. He's figured it out. He's probably known for a while, but, like her, he couldn't bring himself to accept what's always been inevitable.

###

She runs into Remy the next morning at breakfast in the kitchenette. The kids are eating in the dining room, and usually Remy sits with them—he likes to laugh and talk with them—but on this morning he's sitting on a stool next to the counter, putting yogurt in his cereal. He glances up when she walks in and greets her in French. Then he looks up again. Considers her and puts the cup of yogurt down, startled. " _Merde_ ," he whispers. He gets up from the stool and comes around to stand next to her. " _Chere_ , what's wrong? Did something happen?"

She's taken aback. "What?" Does she really look that terrible? She decides to ask him that.

"No, no," he whispers. "You look fine. You just seem—rattled. I think you should go back upstairs. Take the day off."

She ignores him. Pushes past him and goes to the refrigerator.

"To be honest with you?" he says. "You have a wounded dog look about you. You're scaring me." He chuckles. She knows he's now trying to cheer her up.

But maybe he's right. Maybe she should have taken the day. She actually falls asleep in class. Another first. She's giving a test to her middle schoolers and she leans her head against her hand and drifts off toward the end of the hour. She doesn't even wake when they come to her desk to hand in their papers. They file out of the room. One of them, Marian, gently nudges her shoulder and says her name. Her eyes snap open. She tries to say something, but the girl is nice. She senses that Storm needs to be alone and walks out of the room to join her classmates.

Logan doesn't make their after-lunch meeting. He's busy breaking up a fight in the laundry room. Two sixteen-year-old boys fighting over a girl. 

Storm uses the window of opportunity to go into her office and call Hank. He answers on the third ring. Says her name. She can feel him smiling. So she just tells him, tells him everything. Tells him what she needs. She twists the phone cord in her fingers and stares at the desk. He listens. He doesn't ask her anything. He says he'll make some phone calls and get back to her within the hour.

She hates this. Hates needing people like this. She was always the independent one.

She hangs up the phone and waits. Leans her forehead against her hand and closes her eyes. Thinks, and not for the first time, about all the adjustments that will have to be made. But this time she thinks about the small things, the ordinary things she hasn't thought of before. Where will they put the baby? Who will watch it while they work? What about if it cries a lot? What will she do? What's Logan going to do? He hates crying. Then there's the minutia—the things she has to buy, the accommodations they'll have to make to their everyday lives. The real mundane shit, the shit she never imagined she'd have to deal with. And what about the hospital bills? Having a baby is so expensive—her insurance won't cover everything. And there's Rogue to think about now. Her insurance company is about to drop her. Storm feels the panic set in. She doesn't know how this is going to work.

She drifts off. Then the phone rings. She gasps, startled. And answers it before the first ring finishes. It's Hank, of course. He has a name. He's pulled some strings and already made her an appointment. The appointment is for next Tuesday. She remembers to breathe. 

"Oh, and Ororo?" he says. "Congratulations. It's wonderful news. You must be very happy."

She says something in reply—she has no idea what—and hangs up the phone.

There's a knock at the door. She wipes her eyes and looks up to find Logan. He stands there, looks down at her. Then closes the door. "Storm," he says. "What the hell?"

She looks up. "What?"

His eyes sweep over her. "Your students. They're waiting for you. I ran into Jones in the hallway. He says you didn't show. I told him to go back into the classroom and wait."

She looks at the clock. Her upper level history class was supposed to start ten minutes ago. Shit. She starts to get up. Searches her desk for the textbook and a stack of papers.

Logan walks quickly to the other side of the desk. "No," he says, his hand on her shoulder. "Storm, sit down."

"The kids—"

"Can wait." He gently nudges her back into her chair. Doesn't let her get up. His tone is not unkind or accusatory. He just seems worried—and maybe a little in awe of his own concern. In awe of her disordered state—she's never been like this. Ever. And he knows it. "You need—you need to just stay here. With me. What is it that you have to tell me?"

She sits back. Shakes her head and bites her lip and looks straight ahead.

He sits on the edge of the desk. "This has been going on for a little while." His voice is very quiet.

She doesn't look at him. She continues to look straight ahead. 

"I mean," he says, "we're close. We're so close. But whatever this is, it's like . . ."

She looks up at him, almost afraid of what she might see. 

"You don't trust me," he says. He takes a ragged breath. "Damn." He looks away. "Maybe I don't deserve your trust, I don't know." His voice is heavy and sad.

She can't drag her gaze away from him.

"Maybe if things had been different. From the beginning."

"No," she says. "Don't say that." She reaches for him. "I trust you. I just don't want, I don't want—"

"What?"

She looks away. She doesn't know what she doesn't want. She can't even focus. Was this about trust? She wonders. She feels nothing but fear and longing sometimes, this urge to protect Logan, to keep him going. Fear of the future, longing for the idealized past that never happened. But maybe her fear is another form of mistrust. Of herself, of him.

She just doesn't know. She can't pinpoint her feelings. They're too big and complicated. Inexplicable.

His chest collapses. "Is it—" He glances at her and then clamps his eyes shut. Shakes his head and opens his eyes and gazes at her again. "Is it okay?"

She looks at her desk and then nods.

"How long?"

She looks up at him again. This time she doesn't break his gaze. "Almost fourteen weeks," she whispers.

He gets up from the desk and goes to stand at the back of the office. He looks outside, his arms wrapped around his chest. She can hear him. He's crying. She slowly gets up from the desk. Picks up her textbook and papers, and when she leaves the room he's still standing at the window.

###

When she gets to class—fifteen minutes late—she's fine. She's the finest she's been. At least this is what she tells herself. Truth is, she arrives at the classroom to find the place in chaos. Two students are sitting on the radiator, arm-in-arm, singing some song. The other students are scattered about, talking and laughing and playing with their cell phones. She walks past them, walks over to the desk and sets her stuff down. Reminds herself what she had planned for today: a quiz. But she doesn't have it with her. She thinks about dismissing them.

It takes several seconds, but they finally figure out that she's in the room. They didn't know. She'd come in quietly, hadn't said anything. They slip into their seats. Her reputation as a hard-ass still prevails, apparently, even though she's been weird lately, letting them get away with all kinds of things—late homework and worse.

She pulls out her chair and sits down at the desk. She never sits to teach in this room because it's so traditional—a desk at the front, a board, three rows of rectangular tables for the students. Scott's old classroom. The room is small, but she always stands. Now she searches for her book. She looks down at the wood in front of her.

She's shaking.

"Ms. Munroe?" someone says. It's Jones. He sits in the front row. (He always sits in the front row. And he never has a problem speaking up.) "Are you okay?"

The students fall silent. She can feel them all locking onto her.

She touches her forehead. Tries to shake off what just happened. She feels dizzy. She wonders—and this is a weird thing to wonder—if she's actually dizzy or if she's just emotional, reeling from her little chat with Logan. She forces herself to stand. She opens the book in front of her, turns to the chapter she's got marked. (Thank God she had the sense to mark it. She'd never find it now.)

Then she turns to face the board. It's there. She needs a piece of chalk.

"Ms. Munroe?" Jones says again, behind her.

She reaches out to steady herself, looks behind her. The kid is on his feet. So are a few others. They're approaching her. They're worried. She's scaring them. Then she feels terrible. She's never scared the kids before—at least not like this. She sucks in her breath. Jones reaches for her, puts a hand on her arm. He guides her back to her chair and stands over her.

She can't imagine what she must look like to them.

Someone whispers, "Get Mr. Logan."

Logan's already there. In the doorway. He walks into the room and tells them all that they're dismissed. They sit there for a moment, unmoving. "Go," he says, more forcefully. Then, not as forcefully: "Early study hall." They all pack up their belongings and file out of the room, one-by-one. They don't look back.

Now he's the one standing over her. She can't bring her eyes up to look at him. "Come on," he whispers. He reaches down and pulls her to her feet. Wraps his arms around her.

When Remy gets there—minutes or hours later, Storm can't tell—they're still like that. She doesn't hear him approach, but Logan does. He turns his head to find Remy in the doorway.

"Oh," Remy says. He sees them together. Recognizes that they're having a moment. He spins on his heals and starts to walk away. "Just wanted to make sure you're alright," he calls. "The kids said something."

"Wait," Storm says, pulling away from Logan, just slightly. "The kids. Are they okay?"

Remy looks back and stops. Pulls at the door and smiles. "Well, to be honest? They were kind of in a clusterfuck at first. But Remy calmed 'em down. That's my job, it's what I do." He laughs under his breath. "They think y'all are cute, by the way. Ms Munroe and Mr. Logan. Little schoolteacher romance." He shrugs. "You've been the talk for a while."

Logan's arms tighten a little. He pulls her closer. "You told them about us?"

He looks at them for a second. Then he smiles again. "What are you talking about? I didn't need to tell them anything." He laughs again as if he just can't believe them—there, together, so fraught. He seems to want to reach out to them, comfort them in some way, tell them there's no reason to be so distressed. There are worse things, after all. "Everyone knows. If you thought this was some big secret? Well, there are no secrets here." He grins at them before leaving the classroom, closing the door on his way out.


End file.
